


Irresistible Diet

by Redhoodlyn



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Izaya Being Izaya, M/M, Reader is a vampire, Reader-Insert, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redhoodlyn/pseuds/Redhoodlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which you’re the vampire, and Izaya decides to fuck with you because Izaya is Izaya and no one just ups and gets away with drinking his blood.</p>
<p>(Inspired by the manga “Deep Bloody Night” by Lee Sun-young)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: The Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you smell something irresistible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: You’re a vampire.   
> This chapter is unisex. As with ADAP, all other chapters will begin with a (M) for male-reader perspective or (F) for female-reader perspective. They’re pretty much identical, except for, y’know, stuff.

Hunger. Gods, the ache stung. A bullet had pierced your gut dead-on. It kept beating away at the walls of your stomach, demanding all focus, all concentration.

So when the scent hit you next, hard and heady, you weren’t surprised in the least at its irresistible quality—or at your stomach's gurgling.

You followed the scent through the city streets, hiding your unruly nails within the cuff of your jacket's sleeves and trying to be discreet with your sniffing. Every person that passed by emitted their own delightful or horrific scent, from delectable lamb to pungent maggots. You're not a fan of lamb, having been made to butcher and cook a live one when you were young, but this scent you were following now – like all the luxurious meals you could never afford in a million years roasted on only the finest woods, glazed in savory sauces with just the right pinch of spice and a dash of parsley for appearances. It smelt like heaven.

You needed it. Now.

The closer you got, the more tantalizing the scent became. The nightlife brushed by you on either side, a distant and out-of-focus image smudged to just lights and sounds. Heels. Laughter. Off-key singing. All of it, you ignored. The scent vaulted over walls and drifted through the air, it clung to windows and confused you by tingeing the coats of random passersby. It gave little rhyme or reason to its meandering path, and meander did you to follow that damn thing.

You were tracking fog. It was just within reach, and it was never there.

The frustration and the hunger clawed up your throat, twisting your mouth into a frown and nipping at the insides of your lips. _Stop that_ , you told yourself. _You’ve lived long enough to not bite yourself_. Fangs are stubborn creatures with thoughts of their own, you’re certain. There’s no other explanation for being unable to make them turn into tiny human teeth or perfect-for-dining biters when you want, as you want.

The scent tempted you into a courtyard that was far too open for your liking. Stupidly, you followed it. (Your predecessor would skin you alive right now, if he could.) The scent trailed and twisted across the expanse, encircling an ox of a fellow, one that reminded you of bears and all things strong and slow-moving and in that regards not necessarily disturbing but with a thick accent that rung little bells in your head, and promptly abandoned him for a… sushi place.

You stared at the open door for some time, debating on _just_ how hungry you were to enter a place that smelled of dead fish. The tempting scent tickled your nose until you sneezed, and then hit you full force all over again.

Okay, yeah, you’re ravenous. You entered the sushi place.

You exited the sushi place.

Your nails dug into your palms, trying and failing to break skin. The scent, the stupid delightful heavenly idiotic meandering damn scent, it went straight inside, nestled, and then exited once more. How fast did your prey move? How slow were you? Was this trail days old and you’ve only caught wind of it now? What if they had already been eaten?

You ditched that line of thought, finding it too depressing for the state of your stomach. You continued the pursuit. (Pursuit, and not hunt, because one implies the dinner is within reach and the other, well, the other implies still finding dinner.)

_A snack would be good_ , you thought as you rounded yet another corner. A whole medley floated through the air: beef stew, macaroni and cheese, and even something far too chocolaty for your palette right now. None of these tempted you nearly as much as this particular, indefinable, subtle, lean, and lush one. There’s a hint of smoked to it, but it’s hard to settle on smoked _what_. Smoked turkey, smoked chicken, smoked vegetables, smoked mushrooms, smoked delicate with a glaze. A honey glaze, a spicy glaze, a refined glaze, a raw edge. That rawness, not unlike uncooked fished but yet not fishy or repugnant in nature – as raw as the thrill from a rollercoaster ride or as raw as a skydive or as raw as a bungee jump or – at some point, you had ceased walking.

This would not do. You resumed the motion, your legs heavy from hunger. It had reached your limbs and now throbbed in your arms, your tendons, and the hollow of your poor, empty stomach.

You no longer questioned why the scent was on roof of that building across the street, or on the awning of the restaurant right next to you, or across the tight wire between buildings. It just was.

You must be chasing birds. _Maybe this meal isn’t a meal but a… a someone like me?_ The thought gave you goose bumps. You’d heard talk of those going mad and carnivorous, but you’d never given it much thought, never believed it true or credible. What if it was a disease transferable via snacking? What if you had it?

_This is ridiculous. You’re delusional because you’re hungry. Stop skipping breakfast and lunch._ You scolded yourself, but yourself didn’t listen. It was busy being fixated on an attractive man across the street, one wearing a fur coat a bit too warm for the season, with a grin as wicked as sin and as addicting as cigarettes. The raw edge clung to his uncaring wave bidding a random student adieu, dripped off his arms as he draped them over another student, and permeated the very air around him. With the way he moved, you suddenly, perfectly, understood how that magical scent had floated from street to rooftop and back down. His teeth were human, and he smelled human, but he had to be anything but human. He had to be death or one of those hunters-be-damned.

Even as you thought it, you just knew it wasn’t true. Hunters had a certain way about them, a suspicion that coated all of their actions. They came across normal and human, but they’re easy to spot. It’s in part the uniforms – they’re stupid that way – and in part the way they always scanned their environment, as though on the alert for a target. This delectable fellow, the only thing that coated him – aside from the sinful scent – was _danger_. Your first boyfriend that just so happened to be in a yakuza, or into slightly illicit acts. Your first time speeding across the highway, ignoring the police parked off to the side. Your first time drinking, even though it wasn’t legal yet. Danger; the scent of spicy wasabi mingled with every addicting food possibly imaginable.

_Stop drooling_ , you promptly turned around, away from dinner. Your stomach growled. You brought a hand up to your mouth, poking it for saliva – _thank gods there isn’t any actual drool_ – and for the teeth that hurt like the dickens. _Stupid teeth_. When you peered back over your shoulder, across the street, dinner had vanished.

You panicked.

You turned around fully, scanning and trying not to be too obvious about this whole tracking business—

“Hello there,” behind you, the honeyed voice whispered. He leaned against you, wrapping an arm across your shoulders— _you are dead, you are so dead, this is so a hunter, deaddeaddeaddead_ —nuzzled your ear with his nose, hot puffs of breath warming your neck, a light nip— _holyfuck why is that hot, no you’re hungry focus on that hungerhungerhunger_ —and a knife tickled your neck. _Where the fuck did that knife come from?_ With the way he stood, leaning against you, an arm encircling your shoulders, the knife was perfectly visible to you – and perfectly hidden from everyone else. _Is that thing coated with something deadly_? It didn’t feel like it, it didn’t sting like silver as it rested against the side of your neck, hardly even registered if not for the glint of metal you could see. “Is there a reason you’re following me?” He whispered in your ear. The contrast of hot and cold on either side of your neck—you tried not to shiver.

“I think you’re hot.” It’s better to be straightforward with these types of people, you’ve learned. He chuckled into your ear, the sound rumbling his chest against your side and doing wonderfully terrible things to your gut. _Stupid hot guy why do I have hormones I don’t need them to eat stupidstupidstupid. Don’t play with your food, you learned that didn’t you?_

“Alright,” he licked your neck. He _licked_ your neck. _Ugh, that should not be hot. I’ve done that!_ But it was, irresistibly, irrevocably, and combined with the heady nature of his scent—you couldn’t really feel your legs anymore. _That’s totally the hunger,_ you lied to yourself. “I’ll bite.” He said and pulled away, his human teeth flashing in the streetlight, and tugged you to his death.

Because, let’s face it, you’re going to have zero self-control with this guy.


	2. (M) Chapter 2: The Main Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which your first terrible choice is made: to drink his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male-reader perspective.

_His lips taste like licorice, his tongue like candy_. Now the lyrics were stuck in your head. They ran on a lackadaisical loop through your brain, attempting to syphon away some of your mind but failing miserably because _damn_ did this guy know how to move his mouth.

Sex takes a great deal of effort. It saps about eighty percent of whatever you get from a light, single-course meal. For this reason, you generally fast-forward through it. There’s the kissing, the making out, okay this is getting to be too much work, here look me in the eye now, yeah we totally had sex last night and this ache on your neck is just from a hickey it’s definitely not a creepy looking bite or anything and it was nice doing business with you bye!

That’s normally how it goes. They think they had a good fuck, and you know you got a nice little meal with only a thirty percent tax, if that.

But the way he moved his lips against yours, slowly at first, teeth grazing along the bottom of your lip, tugging it aside to slip a tongue inside, his hand hot against your waist, gripping, sinking lower, fingers teasing at the loops of your waist band, tempting the heat burning below to become a fire— _I was here for something,_ your brain reminded you—his lips brushed against the side of your mouth, a sigh ghosting along your flesh, hot and moist. His scent surrounded you in an irresistibly savory shroud. _It’s something important_ , your brain insisted. There was a wall against your back, very solid and very cold, reminding you of stone, but his chest brushed your own, the warmth trying to seep into your very core. You could hear his heart pounding. It was a steady, measured, and entirely unaffected rhythm. If your heart beat, it would be pounding. Most humans, their hearts rage against their ribcage by now. The unmoved rhythmic pattern of his heart going _thump, thump, thump_ against his chest, the tingle of his fingernails scrapping against your hipbone and then sinking just barely below your waist band—a heady, erotic, addictive sensation.

It would sap all of the energy straight out of you. _Just eat and get done with it_ , the thought was half-hearted and uninspiring. His free hand gripped your right wrist, pulled the appendage away from his chest, and guided your hand to rest at the nap of his neck. His hair was soft. The pulse in his neck beat against the side of your wrist. You had barely entangled your hand in the strands when he lifted you by the waist so your legs wrapped around him and then grinded—slowly, gods did he move so slowly, the friction just on the verge of there, a sweet, sick, torture, the bastard—

He laughed, short, slightly breathless, but nowhere near as flustered as you felt. “This is going well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Shut up and _move_.” You emphasized the word by attempting to grind against him, but he held you still with those fucking hands on your waist that _asshole—_

“Let’s not get carried away too quickly.” His admonishment was accompanied by another gentle, teasing thrust that just served to irritate and hunger you further. You could see the pulse in his neck. The savory shroud thickened such that you could almost taste a rich, flavorful meal.

You felt your fangs digging into your cheek.

“Let’s start with names,” he smiled, again grinding slowly, maneuvering so he could hold you up with one arm and stroke your thigh with the other hand. He leaned closer, resting his lips against your neck, just barely below your ear, his teeth grazing your neck— _this should not be so hot—_ and whispered your name.

You didn’t register it at first. The words were foreign and garbled. His teeth dug a bit harder, and his next thrust came closer to being enough. His hand trailed down to massage the inside of your thigh – just. barely. fucking. _there._ You might be yanking at his hair, but you couldn’t be sure. You just needed a little bit more skin contact—the name hit. He knew your name. How did he know your name?! You hadn’t even told him it!

He pulled back, smiling—no, _smirking_. He could tell. That fucking _asshole_ , he was _messing_ with you!

Rage boiled to the surface, pushing anything akin to lust far below the water. The hunger hit. _Okay_ , you decided. _Okay, we’re done_.

“Now that I have your attention—”

You caught his eyes with your own, holding them. This took concentration. Hunger, rage, lust—all of that you shoved aside with a great deal of effort. “You don’t know my name,” you said.

He processed it, a glaze to his red-brown eyes that made you think of a honey glaze over a chocolate cake. Shiny. “I don’t know your name,” he repeated.

You smiled, your fangs peeking out. “You don’t know anything about me, can’t even remember what I look like, but we had a great fuck. You’d do it again—but you’re not going too.”

“I’d do you again, but I don’t know who you are.” He looked a bit concerned at the thought, but agreed to it. What you were saying now was the absolute truth.

“Now tilt your head to the side for me,” you ordered and he compiled, tilting his head so you could see his veins pulsing coyly. The scent hit you, attempting to overwhelm you—you focused on the curve of the vein, on the sound of his heartbeat— _just a small snack,_ you told yourself over and over again. _Just a small amount, just until you reach ten_ , you reminded yourself to count. You really couldn’t kill another person. The thought churned your stomach, nearly blowing your appetite. Sure this guy was clearly someone you should be concerned about, but that’s not reason enough for him to die. _You feed off people and you can’t stomach them dying on you? That’s pathetic._ The thought carried no bite. It reminded you of what your predecessor would say to you day in and day out. “Humans are food, not pets. Do you go around naming your food before you eat it? No. Why? Because it’s food. Now eat.” Your predecessor was wonderful, of course, and did a fantastic job of keeping you alive. So his words must have some value.

They just didn’t resonate with you.

Pushing the thoughts aside, you rested your lips against his neck, your teeth grazing the flesh. His scent was a combination of a rainforest fresh after a storm and an ocean in the midst of a tsunami. You bit down, counting one. Honey, hickory, smoked salmon, a side of avocado. Two. Roasted mushrooms stuffed with sausage and a pinch of chives. Three. Chicken glazed in a rich cream and sprinkled with minced peppers, spinach, smoked gouda, asparaguses heads—oh. _Fuck._ The rich, savory taste flowed over your tongue. It was the exotic outback and the refined upper class. It was sweet and spicy and chillingly hot. There’s a number you’re supposed to say next. Is it five? Seven? _Shitshitshitshitshit_ , you stopped, blood spilling off the side of his neck and down your throat and you lapped it up quickly, trying to stem the flow. There was something special you were supposed to do to make the bleeding stop but it tasted so divine that you forgot what it was for a solid minute. Your blood, right. _Blood for blood_. You bit your lower lip and rubbed it against the bite so the wound would close up. There were two, tiny marks in his neck that would disappear in a week or so.

You gazed at his neck for several minutes.

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

There was something you were supposed to be doing.

Tick, tick, tock.

Hopefully it was drinking that blood again.

Tock, tick, tick, tock.

Your brain assured you that this step had already been covered. You weren’t certain.

Tick, tick, tock—that clock was annoying as all fuck. You looked for it, but couldn’t find anything. There was something strange about that light fixture across the room though. It had an unusual shadow over it. You squinted and forced your brain to think. This guy knew your name. You didn’t know how, but he did. It would be sufficient to say there might be cameras in his place. Sometimes, you were really stupid about where you ate your meals.

“Do you have cameras?”

“… yes…” His eyes were still glazed and his balance was slightly off. You may’ve drunk too much. You really hoped not. He swayed.

You turned his head so he was looking you in the eye again, although with the wavering that was a bit difficult. He was still zoned out at least, which meant you had him hypnotized properly.

“Do you have anything high in sugar?”

He nodded.

“Eat it, now.”

While he wobbled into the kitchen for whatever sugar-related foods he had, you headed towards the desk. Presumably, you could just log onto the light-box and erase the footage. You have no idea how. You stared at the screen and the blinking curser inside a white box. What the fuck was that? (You’re not really good with computers… they can’t be hypnotized, so they must be useless.)

“Human,” you called, and his head tilted toward you in answer. He was in the middle of a cookie. You’ve heard cookies are good for humans after donating blood. You never had a chance to taste one as a human. You’re a bit sore about this fact. “How do I…” It took a moment to determine what type of question you wanted to ask, since you didn’t really know what you were dealing with here. “How do I erase whatever the cameras have seen?”

He started blabbering gibberish.

 _Shit._ You broke him!!

“Stop! Stop!” You didn’t know how to fix him. Thankfully, he stopped speaking. _Okay,_ you thought, _this isn’t going to work_. There was no way you’d be able to erase the footage yourself. Next best step: make him do it!

“Come over here and erase the footage.”

It took all of maybe three minutes for him to do so – you guessed three because he was dazed and low on blood. That was easy. Relatively, considering all things, including how much this place smelt like mouthwatering foods that should be eaten now—okay, it’s time to _gogogogo_ because you really didn’t need another meal, although it would be very delicious and soothing on your dry throat—leaving. Now.

You’ve hardly taken ten steps before you remembered an important thing. Turning back to the man – he was still at his desk, one half-eaten cookie off to the side, staring ever so blankly at the screen – you caught his eye again and issued one last order.

“Finish that cookie, rest, and eat as much food in the morning as you can handle. Preferably food high in sugar. Don’t overexert yourself.” You considered telling him to get a blood transplant – but if he did, someone would notice the bite marks and you really didn’t need any vampire order or local clan getting worked up over your inability to properly hide your trail or anything.

So you left.

He would be fine.

Really.

And you didn’t need to drink more.

Really.

…

_Really._

~

Izaya woke up to a bug biting his neck. He smacked it but when he pulled his hand away, there was no mashed bug. Stupid critter was still alive. _Like that monster, Shizu-chan. How unfortunate,_ Izaya thought to himself and rubbed his neck harshly. It brought little relief.

If Izaya was honest with himself, which he always was because – unlike humans – he was not foolish enough to disrupt himself with lies, his annoyance stemmed not from the bug bite but from having fucked someone without garnering any particularly striking information about them.

He couldn’t even recall their face. They had to have a gender, too, but that escaped his mind.

This was a disappointment. A failure. This sloppy behavior was beneath him.

Izaya trudged down the hallway, rubbing, scratching, practically clawing at his neck. Namie would not be in until late today, and so there would be no breakfast. This soured Izaya’s mood further as he was ridiculously hungry right now. Not even Russia sushi would be enough. He intended to go to his desk but stopped by the fridge first, his hunger getting to him. There was some lettuce, uncooked potatoes, leftover rice, and orange juice. He grabbed all but the potatoes and devoured it without even bothering to heat the food.

How disgusting. Izaya admonished his lack of self-control. This was beyond disappointing, it was unacceptable.

Izaya flounced into his desk, flouncing because something had to be done right today, twirled twice, his gaze flashing over his stodgy reflection in the glass, and turned on his computer. There was something amiss with his reflection. Izaya wheeled back around to the window while his computer awoke. If he moved the collar of his shirt just so, he could see the bug bite. Izaya narrowed his eyes at the tiny dots. _Two_ bug bites, not just one. Or a spider bite.

“Hmph.” Izaya returned to his computer. He pulled up his surveillance videos and checked the records. Erased. “Well,” Izaya flashed his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “This is interesting.” It took little to no effort for him to discern exactly what timestamps had been erased, retrieve the erased files – Izaya was no idiot, and whoever had done this had clearly been an amateur – rewind them, and watch.

The more Izaya watched, the more he grinned. “This is very, _very_ interesting.” It was some boy – and when Izaya ran facial recognition, he pulled up some research he’d done early in the week on said boy and recovered his name – that just so happened to have a pair of very shiny, very pointy teeth. Izaya watched, amused by how the night had gone.

No sex, sadly, but plenty of telepathically induced amnesia, hypnosis, and blood donated.

Well, Izaya would just have to remedy that.

“This’ll be fun~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: vampires in this fanfic are inspired by the True Blood vampires. In other words: sunlight kills you, silver injures you, and you can hypnotize people.


	3. (F) Chapter 2: The Main Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which your first terrible choice is made: to drink his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female-reader perspective.

_His lips taste like licorice, his tongue like candy_. Now the lyrics were stuck in your head. They ran on a lackadaisical loop through your brain, attempting to syphon away some of your mind but failing miserably because _damn_ did this guy know how to move his mouth.

Sex takes a great deal of effort. It saps about eighty percent of whatever you get from a light, single-course meal. For this reason, you generally fast-forward through it. There’s the kissing, the making out, okay this is getting to be too much work, here look me in the eye now, yeah we totally had sex last night and this ache on your neck is just from a hickey it’s definitely not a creepy looking bite or anything and it was nice doing business with you bye!

That’s normally how it goes. They think they had a good fuck, and you know you got a nice little meal with only a thirty percent tax, if that.

But the way he moved his lips against yours, slowly at first, teeth grazing along the bottom of your lip, tugging it aside to slip a tongue inside, his hand hot against your waist, gripping, sinking lower, fingers teasing at the loops of your waist band, tempting the heat burning below to become a fire— _I was here for something,_ your brain reminded you—his lips brushed against the side of your mouth, a sigh ghosting along your flesh, hot and moist. His scent surrounded you in an irresistibly savory shroud. _It’s something important_ , your brain insisted. There was a wall against your back, very solid and very cold, reminding you of stone, but his chest brushed your breasts, the warmth trying to seep into your very core and causing you to shiver. You could hear his heart pounding. It was a steady, measured, and entirely unaffected rhythm. If your heart beat, it would be pounding. Most humans, their hearts rage against their ribcage by now. The unmoved rhythmic pattern of his heart going _thump, thump, thump_ against his chest, the tingle of his fingernails scrapping against your hipbone and then sinking just barely below your waist band—a heady, erotic, addictive sensation.

It would sap all of the energy straight out of you. _Just eat and get done with it_ , the thought was half-hearted and uninspiring. His free hand gripped your right wrist, pulled the appendage away from his chest, and guided your hand to rest at the nap of his neck. His hair was soft. The pulse in his neck beat against the side of your wrist. You had barely entangled your hand in the strands when he lifted you by the waist so your legs wrapped around him and then grinded—slowly, gods did he move so slowly, the friction just on the verge of there, a sweet, sick, torture, the bastard—

He laughed, short, slightly breathless, but nowhere near as flustered as you felt. “This is going well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Shut up and _move_.” You emphasized the word by attempting to grind against him, but he held you still with those fucking hands on your waist that _asshole—_

“Let’s not get carried away too quickly.” His admonishment was accompanied by another gentle, teasing thrust that just served to irritate and hunger you further. You could see the pulse in his neck. The savory shroud thickened such that you could almost taste a rich, flavorful meal.

You felt your fangs digging into your cheek.

“Let’s start with names,” he smiled, again grinding slowly, maneuvering so he could hold you up with one arm and stroke your thigh with the other hand. He leaned closer, resting his lips against your neck, just barely below your ear, his teeth grazing your neck— _this should not be so hot—_ and whispered your name.

You didn’t register it at first. The words were foreign and garbled. His teeth dug a bit harder, and his next thrust came closer to being enough. His hand trailed up to massage your breast. You might be pulling at his hair, but you couldn’t be sure. You just needed a little bit more skin contact—the name hit. He knew your name. How did he know your name?! You hadn’t even told him it!

He pulled back, smiling—no, _smirking_. He could tell. That fucking _asshole_ , he was _messing_ with you!

Rage boiled to the surface, pushing anything akin to lust far below the water. The hunger hit. _Okay_ , you decided. _Okay, we’re done_.

“Now that I have your attention—”

You caught his eyes with your own, holding them. This took concentration. Hunger, rage, lust—all of that you shoved aside with a great deal of effort. “You don’t know my name,” you said.

He processed it, a glaze to his red-brown eyes that made you think of a honey glaze over a chocolate cake. Shiny. “I don’t know your name,” he repeated.

You smiled, your fangs peeking out. “You don’t know anything about me, can’t even remember what I look like, but we had a great fuck. You’d do it again—but you’re not going too.”

“I’d do you again, but I don’t know who you are.” He looked a bit concerned at the thought, but agreed to it. What you were saying now was the absolute truth.

“Now tilt your head to the side for me,” you ordered and he compiled, tilting his head so you could see his veins pulsing coyly. The scent hit you, attempting to overwhelm you—you focused on the curve of the vein, on the sound of his heartbeat— _just a small snack,_ you told yourself over and over again. _Just a small amount, just until you reach ten_ , you reminded yourself to count. You really couldn’t kill another person. The thought churned your stomach, nearly blowing your appetite. Sure this guy was clearly someone you should be concerned about, but that’s not reason enough for him to die. _You feed off people and you can’t stomach them dying on you? That’s pathetic._ The thought carried no bite. It reminded you of what your predecessor would say to you day in and day out. “Humans are food, not pets. Do you go around naming your food before you eat it? No. Why? Because it’s food. Now eat.” Your predecessor was wonderful, of course, and did a fantastic job of keeping you alive. So his words must have some value.

They just didn’t resonate with you.

Pushing the thoughts aside, you rested your lips against his neck, your teeth grazing the flesh. His scent was a combination of a rainforest fresh after a storm and an ocean in the midst of a tsunami. You bit down, counting one. Honey, hickory, smoked salmon, a side of avocado. Two. Roasted mushrooms stuffed with sausage and a pinch of chives. Three. Chicken glazed in a rich cream and sprinkled with minced peppers, spinach, smoked gouda, asparaguses heads—oh. _Fuck._ The rich, savory taste flowed over your tongue. It was the exotic outback and the refined upper class. It was sweet and spicy and chillingly hot. There’s a number you’re supposed to say next. Is it five? Seven? _Shitshitshitshitshit_ , you stopped, blood spilling off the side of his neck and down your throat and you lapped it up quickly, trying to stem the flow. There was something special you were supposed to do to make the bleeding stop but it tasted so divine that you forgot what it was for a solid minute. Your blood, right. _Blood for blood_. You bit your lower lip and rubbed it against the bite so the wound would close up. There were two, tiny marks in his neck that would disappear in a week or so.

You gazed at his neck for several minutes.

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

There was something you were supposed to be doing.

Tick, tick, tock.

Hopefully it was drinking that blood again.

Tock, tick, tick, tock.

Your brain assured you that this step had already been covered. You weren’t certain.

Tick, tick, tock—that clock was annoying as all fuck. You looked for it, but couldn’t find anything. There was something strange about that light fixture across the room though. It had an unusual shadow over it. You squinted and forced your brain to think. This guy knew your name. You didn’t know how, but he did. It would be sufficient to say there might be cameras in his place. Sometimes, you were really stupid about where you ate your meals.

“Do you have cameras?”

“… yes…” His eyes were still glazed and his balance was slightly off. You may’ve drunk too much. You really hoped not. He swayed.

You turned his head so he was looking you in the eye again, although with the wavering that was a bit difficult. He was still zoned out at least, which meant you had him hypnotized properly.

“Do you have anything high in sugar?”

He nodded.

“Eat it, now.”

While he wobbled into the kitchen for whatever sugar-related foods he had, you headed towards the desk. Presumably, you could just log onto the light-box and erase the footage. You have no idea how. You stared at the screen and the blinking curser inside a white box. What the fuck was that? (You’re not really good with computers… they can’t be hypnotized, so they must be useless.)

“Human,” you called, and his head tilted toward you in answer. He was in the middle of a cookie. You’ve heard cookies are good for humans after donating blood. You never had a chance to taste one as a human. You’re a bit sore about this face. “How do I…” It took a moment to determine what type of question you wanted to ask, since you didn’t really know what you were dealing with here. “How do I erase whatever the cameras have seen?”

He started blabbering gibberish.

 _Shit._ You broke him!!

“Stop! Stop!” You didn’t know how to fix him. Thankfully, he stopped speaking. _Okay,_ you thought, _this isn’t going to work_. There was no way you’d be able to erase the footage yourself. Next best step: make him do it!

“Come over here and erase the footage.”

It took all of maybe three minutes for him to do so – you guessed three because he was dazed and low on blood. That was easy. Relatively, considering all things, including how much this place smelt like mouthwatering foods that should be eaten now—okay, it’s time to _gogogogo_ because you really didn’t need another meal, although it would be very delicious and soothing on your dry throat—leaving. Now.

You’ve hardly taken ten steps before you remembered an important thing. Turning back to the man – he was still at his desk, one half-eaten cookie off to the side, staring ever so blankly at the screen – you caught his eye again and issued one last order.

“Finish that cookie, rest, and eat as much food in the morning as you can handle. Preferably food high in sugar. Don’t overexert yourself.” You considered telling him to get a blood transplant – but if he did, someone would notice the bite marks and you really didn’t need any vampire order or local clan getting worked up over your inability to properly hide your trail or anything.

So you left.

He would be fine.

Really.

And you didn’t need to drink more.

Really.

…

_Really._

~

Izaya woke up to a bug biting his neck. He smacked it but when he pulled his hand away, there was no mashed bug. Stupid critter was still alive. _Like that monster, Shizu-chan. How unfortunate,_ Izaya thought to himself and rubbed his neck harshly. It brought little relief.

If Izaya was honest with himself, which he always was because – unlike humans – he was not foolish enough to disrupt himself with lies, his annoyance stemmed not from the bug bite but from having fucked someone without garnering any particularly striking information about them.

He couldn’t even recall their face. They had to have a gender, too, but that escaped his mind.

This was a disappointment. A failure. This sloppy behavior was beneath him.

Izaya trudged down the hallway, rubbing, scratching, practically clawing at his neck. Namie would not be in until late today, and so there would be no breakfast. This soured Izaya’s mood further as he was ridiculously hungry right now. Not even Russia sushi would be enough. He intended to go to his desk but stopped by the fridge first, his hunger getting to him. There was some lettuce, uncooked potatoes, leftover rice, and orange juice. He grabbed all but the potatoes and devoured it without even bothering to heat the food.

How disgusting. Izaya admonished his lack of self-control. This was beyond disappointing, it was unacceptable.

Izaya flounced into his desk, flouncing because something had to be done right today, twirled twice, his gaze flashing over his stodgy reflection in the glass, and turned on his computer. There was something amiss with his reflection. Izaya wheeled back around to the window while his computer awoke. If he moved the collar of his shirt just so, he could see the bug bite. Izaya narrowed his eyes at the tiny dots. _Two_ bug bites, not just one. Or a spider bite.

“Hmph.” Izaya returned to his computer. He pulled up his surveillance videos and checked the records. Erased. “Well,” Izaya flashed his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “This is interesting.” It took little to no effort for him to discern exactly what timestamps had been erased, retrieve the erased files – Izaya was no idiot, and whoever had done this had clearly been an amateur – rewind them, and watch.

The more Izaya watched, the more he grinned. “This is very, _very_ interesting.” It was some girl – and when Izaya ran facial recognition, he pulled up some research he’d done early in the week on said girl and recovered her name – that just so happened to have a pair of very shiny, very pointy teeth. Izaya watched, amused by how the night had gone.

No sex, sadly, but plenty of telepathically induced amnesia, hypnosis, and blood donated.

Well, Izaya would just have to remedy that.

“This’ll be fun~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: vampires in this fanfic are inspired by the True Blood vampires. In other words: sunlight kills you, silver injures you, and you can hypnotize people.


	4. (M) Chapter 3: The Late-Night Snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you suffer the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male-reader perspective.

It’s been one week since you drank that man’s blood. Since then, you’ve caught his scent everywhere. Literally, _everywhere_. On the train, in the park, at the nightclub, in the bar, even on the rooftop in the middle of nowhere! It’s gotten so bad that you’ve actually imagined seeing him out of the corner of your eye, just lurking and waiting like a special treat haunting you to oblivion.

There was only one explanation for all this: you were addicted.

This was bad.

Each time you tried to re-energize yourself with a light snack – a handsome fellow in a crisp suit, a lovely lady in a fur coat – the aroma hit you and ruined your appetite for the potential meal. The crisp suit no longer tasted like fruit just plucked from the vine, and the fur coat no longer smelt like a freshly made breakfast crepe. The fruits had withered and the crepe had gotten cold. The scent of the man from a week ago beckoned you, teasing you with unmatched homegrown ingredients sunbaked and drizzled on top of a wood-smoked salmon, with a spring of fresh Italian salad on the side.

 _Ugh_ , why did it have to taste so _good_?!

Long ago, your predecessor had shared some wise words with you (well, he always shared them, on a daily basis, repeatedly and without end and sometimes multiple times in the same day; you swear he was senile or just wanted to make you pull your hair out but whatever): don’t let the scent get to you, for it will be the death of you.

Well, he released you, so screw him. This scent was too good to ignore. It must be a sign to drink more!

You turned away from your current pursuit – a young, school-aged blonde lad who walked with the weight of the world on his shoulders and probably tasted like jerky left out to dry in the sun too long – and took a quick sniff of the damp, night air. It had rained less than an hour ago, which made tracking a pain. But your nose was good—the _best_ if anyone asked you (or your predecessor; but he would promptly smack you for basking in such a weakness as cockiness with a firm, “It’ll be the death of you!” Geez, for someone already dead, he went on about death far too often).

There. You caught it. That heavenly scent.

You hurried after it, tracing it from the corner of the street where you stood to a nearby nightclub. For a moment, just the briefest of moments, you paused outside the entrance. The burly bodyguard on duty eyed you while your breath caught in your throat. In the confines of your chest, your heart pounded (it’s a funny misconception that vampires don’t have hearts – they do, they’re just a little rusty and need a constant resupply of fresh blood). The back of your neck itched and your fingers twitched of their own accord. Your stomach rumbled – not in the ‘I’m hungry’ sort of way, but in the ‘There’s danger’ sort of way. Your instincts told you to run.

“You gonna stand there all day or head inside, kid?” The bodyguard asked. His posture was relaxed, natural, but you knew without looking that he was closely observing you in the rare event that you were trouble. You rolled your shoulders and rubbed the itch at the back of your neck, the nervousness that made you pause quickly fleeing and the scent beckoning you once more.

 _It’s alright_ , you told yourself. _Even if it’s not alright, I can get out quick. Worst case, I’ll hypnotize everyone_. It wasn’t like you were weak right now: if you needed to, you could run at full speed, which was faster than the blink of an eye. You just needed a little bit of a meal to refuel yourself for the next few days. As your predecessor constantly reminded you, it was important to feed regularly in case of a sudden food shortage.

Approaching the entrance, you caught the bodyguard’s eye with your own. “Tell me, did a black haired fellow wearing a fur coat come by?” You asked. The bodyguard’s eyes glazed over, hypnosis setting in.

“Yeah… just a few minutes ago.” He nodded dully, “Should still be inside.”

“Thanks,” you grinned, being careful not to show off your teeth. “Forget we had this conversation, and forget you saw that man enter.”

“Don’t even know who you’re talking about, kid.” He answered agreeably.

“Very good.” The bodyguard held the door open for you, the rain starting up again just as you entered.

As expected, the nightclub was a chaotic mess of strobe lights, music, grinding bodies, and the overwhelming stench of desperation. Wafting through that mass was the subtle fragrance of an irresistible meal. You followed the scent closely, trying not to be blindsided too much by your new and extremely crowded environment.

Halfway through the room, your idiocy hit you. Literally, it hit you.

You don’t know how and you don’t know who or what did it, but between one heartbeat and the next something smacked you in the back of your head. The blow didn’t actually hurt; it just caused you to stumble, losing your balance and becoming disoriented from the combination of bodies grinding around you, the flashing lights, and the loud noises. You couldn’t identify who hit you. In the next heartbeat, your neck stung. You immediately reached up, your hands burning as they came into contact with a silver chain— _shit.shit.shit.shit._ —the person holding the chain pulled tighter, and another person came into your field of vision with a set of silver handcuffs. _No!_

You ran.

Distantly, you heard people shouting in surprise and wondering what had shoved them all aside. You were already outside in a back alley, the silver chain still burning around your neck and the person who put it there still unfortunately attached to the other end.

 _Fear_. You could smell it coming off the other person in waves, even amid the pouring rain. _Good,_ you thought. _Be afraid you asshole_. You swiveled your head around, ignoring the burning pain as best you could—and _gods_ did it _hurt!_ It was like a thousand fire ants crawling across your neck and burrowing into your flesh— _focus!_ You told yourself. The guy was completely unfamiliar and wasn’t wearing a hunter uniform. Your eyes narrowed. Who was this guy and how did he know what hurt you if he wasn’t an official hunter? Honestly, he seemed like a random gang member. He gulped, loudly, his grip loosening just the tiniest bit on the chain. With one hand, you grabbed the chain, and with the other, you punched him. Your grip was stronger than his, holding the chain in place as he flew across the alleyway and into a dumpster.

You dropped the chain to the concrete floor, the burns still sizzling. Fresh wounds on your palms from touching the silver chain quickly healed, but your neck…

With a curse, you tilted your head back so the rain could sooth the burn marks. It would take a few minutes to heal, unless you drank blood. In the background, you heard the guy crawling across the garbage and attempting to get out of the dumpster.

“Here,” you said, racing over, grabbing him by the jacket, and harshly pulling him out of the dumpster, “Let me help you.”

“No! No! God, please, no! Let me go! Please let me go!”

“Why would I let someone who just tried to kill me go?”

“I didn’t mean it!”

“You didn’t mean it?” you hissed, shaking him back and forth. “What kind of answer is that? ‘Oh, mommy, I didn’t mean to take the cookie?’!”

“I wasn’t gonna kill you!” He blubbered, on the verge of outright wailing. The good news was that the pouring rain drowned out all of his ruckus, so no one was likely to come running—oh. Spoke too soon. The other guy, the one with the hand cuffs that you’d honestly completely forgotten about, rushed out of the nightclub’s back door and ran at you with a bat.

“Really?” You asked, side-stepping the swing at the very last moment. The guy smacked into the brick wall on the other side. He fell to his knees, stunned and gasping for breath.

“You’re fine.” You said. “Just take slow, deep breaths. You only got the wind knocked out of you, you dumbass.” You returned your attention to the guy currently in your hands. Shaking him again for good measure, you asked, “What do you mean, you ‘weren’t going to kill me?’ Then what were you going to do?”

The guy gulped. He wasn’t going to talk. Fine.

Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, you closed your eyes. It took a moment to shove aside the anger, the pain, the indignation and—yes, the humiliation of being such a _stupid_ _idiot_. When you’d shoved it all down, you opened your eyes and caught the gangster’s gaze with your own.

“What was your plan?” You asked sweetly.

His eyes glazed over. “We were going to take you to—” A bat hit him in the head. Automatically, you dropped him to the floor.

“Don’t look at him! You’ll be hypnotized!”

Right. The other guy. You’d forgotten he existed, _yet_ _again_.

“I’m being such a dummy tonight, aren’t I?” You sighed, rubbing your head. Your hair stuck to your fingers and your scalp unpleasantly, the rain pouring harder with each passing moment. You quickly became drenched to the bone.

Over the sound of the pouring rain, you heard a rhythmic wail. _Sirens_ , you thought, freezing. As much as you wanted answers, and as much as you _really_ wanted to drain these two idiots of their blood (even if it wasn’t in your nature to), if you were being smart, you didn’t have the time. It was moments like these that your predecessor would, begrudgingly, be proud of you. You grabbed the guy with the bat, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“You got in a fight with your buddy over here because you both wanted to bang the same chick. You never saw me. You don’t know who I am. You don’t know what I am. You don’t know what silver does to me or my kind.” You repeated this same hypnosis with the other guy, making sure that it had worked on both of them, and then quickly scaled the nearest building. Vaulting over onto the rooftop, you ducked down just in time for the cops to arrive outside of the nightclub. You bet the guy with the bat had called them.

 _That was close_ , you sighed. You began inching backwards, keeping your head down.

Not even two steps back and a hand came down on your shoulder, latching on in a very nonchalant, almost friendly manner. Just as you tensed up, ready for another fight, the scent hit you.

_It’s that guy!_

“So we meet again~” he hummed, almost singing.

 _Shit! He remembers! This is bad, this is bad, this is bad,_ you thought, trying so hard not to panic with every fiber of your being.

“I see you caused a bit of a commotion down there…” He said as he leaned over the edge to peer down at the policemen arresting the gang members. You fought the urge to yank him back and prevent him from being spotted; instead using the moment to attempt to inch away. The grip on your shoulder tightened, holding you in place. How could he have such a strong grip—was he really a hunter?! “I’d keep my head down if I were you, wouldn’t want to be spotted and all~”

He pulled you back by the shoulder of your jacket so the two of you were several feet away from the edge of the roof. Through the drizzle of rain, you could see the red and blue lights bouncing off the alleyway walls and smudging the air with their vibrant colors.

“What do you want?” You asked, attempting to shrug out of your jacket and away from him.

“Heh, that’s a funny thing to ask. Isn’t it _you_ that wants something?” He retorted, letting you go.

You quickly backed away from him, making sure to face him so you’d see whatever he’d do next. It was better to face an opponent head-on than to be surprised by their attacks.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Really now, you’re going to play that card? You don’t know what I’m talking about?” He interrupted you, removing something from his pocket with a flick of his wrist. The item glinted red and blue from the police car lighting. A reflection.

 _A knife_ , you thought, your heart pounding hard and fast inside of your chest. It could be a silver knife. This could be the end of you.

“I was expecting a bit more from you...” He went on idly. “Don’t take it the wrong way, it’s not as though I’m disappointed with you or anything. At least, not yet.”

Your eyes tracked the knife closely, watching as he laid it against the palm of his free hand and then—red dribbled onto the concrete roof. Rain mixed with it, diluting the thick color and weighing down the heavenly scent. You could feel your nostrils flaring, inhaling as much of it as you could from this distance. You didn’t move an inch.

“Hm,” he hummed and said something, you knew he did, but you honestly did not hear a single word he said.

The blood kept flowing, dripping onto the concrete roof. Your whole body felt heavier than a statue or a freight train of a thousand bricks, as though if someone were to push you with their picky finger, you’d fall over the edge of the roof, past ground level, and sink to the center of the earth.

If you moved, it would surely be to your death. That knife had to be made of silver. But you couldn’t leave that tempting scent behind either. So you didn’t move. Not. One. Inch.

You blinked, and suddenly he stood a mere foot away, waving the bleeding appendage in your face.

“Go on, it’s what you want, isn’t it?” He asked, offering the arm.

 _This is a bad idea_ , you thought, eyeing the proffered limb. It may be the worst idea on the face of the planet.... but that undeniable, inhuman _scent_. This close, you could practically feel his heart pounding, the blood thrumming through his veins, the hickory ribs and steak sautéed in a lucrative garlic and roasted pepper seasoning, the eye of a hurricane with the salty sting of the ocean, his inviting grin as each droplet fell, _wasted_ , onto the rooftop—

You grabbed his wrist and sunk your teeth into his palm. An explosion of flavors hit your tongue. Your eyes closed to savor the mouthwatering taste.

The back of your mind noticed something prick your neck, a sensation akin to a mosquito bite. You were too busy enjoying dinner to pay it much more mind.

If you had, you would’ve realized that your dinner had just given you a shot of who-knows-what. Said shot would explain a lot about why you were suddenly lying on the ground, blinking heavily against the rain.

“Have you figured out what I want yet?” He asked as you blinked.

Was the night getting darker or were you falling asleep? His lips moved, more words coming out, but these too, like the words he’d said earlier, escaped you.

The darkness enveloped you, a thick and impenetrable cloud, and for once in a very long time, you felt as though you might actually dream again...

“You.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much melodrama. Such theatrics. Wow.


	5. (F) Chapter 3: The Late-Night Snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you suffer the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female-reader perspective.

It’s been one week since you drank that man’s blood. Since then, you’ve caught his scent everywhere. Literally, _everywhere_. On the train, in the park, at the nightclub, in the bar, even on the rooftop in the middle of nowhere! It’s gotten so bad that you’ve actually imagined seeing him out of the corner of your eye, just lurking and waiting like a special treat haunting you to oblivion.

There was only one explanation for all this: you were addicted.

This was bad.

Each time you tried to re-energize yourself with a light snack – a handsome fellow in a crisp suit, a lovely lady in a fur coat – the aroma hit you and ruined your appetite for the potential meal. The crisp suit no longer tasted like fruit just plucked from the vine, and the fur coat no longer smelt like a freshly made breakfast crepe. The fruits had withered and the crepe had gotten cold. The scent of the man from a week ago beckoned you, teasing you with unmatched homegrown ingredients sunbaked and drizzled on top of a wood-smoked salmon, with a spring of fresh Italian salad on the side.

 _Ugh_ , why did it have to taste so _good_?!

Long ago, your predecessor had shared some wise words with you (well, he always shared them, on a daily basis, repeatedly and without end and sometimes multiple times in the same day; you swear he was senile or just wanted to make you pull your hair out but whatever): don’t let the scent get to you, for it will be the death of you.

Well, he released you, so screw him. This scent was too good to ignore. It must be a sign to drink more!

You turned away from your current pursuit – a young, school-aged blonde lad who walked with the weight of the world on his shoulders and probably tasted like jerky left out to dry in the sun too long – and took a quick sniff of the damp, night air. It had rained less than an hour ago, which made tracking a pain. But your nose was good—the _best_ if anyone asked you (or your predecessor; but he would promptly smack you for basking in such a weakness as cockiness with a firm, “It’ll be the death of you!” Geez, for someone already dead, he went on about death far too often).

There. You caught it. That heavenly scent.

You hurried after it, tracing it from the corner of the street where you stood to a nearby nightclub. For a moment, just the briefest of moments, you paused outside the entrance. The burly bodyguard on duty eyed you while your breath caught in your throat. In the confines of your chest, your heart pounded (it’s a funny misconception that vampires don’t have hearts – they do, they’re just a little rusty and need a constant resupply of fresh blood). The back of your neck itched and your fingers twitched of their own accord. Your stomach rumbled – not in the ‘I’m hungry’ sort of way, but in the ‘There’s danger’ sort of way. Your instincts told you to run.

“Something the matter, Miss?” The bodyguard asked. His posture was relaxed, natural, but you knew without looking that he was closely observing you in the rare event that you were sent to cause trouble. You rolled your shoulders and rubbed the itch at the back of your neck, the nervousness that made you pause quickly fleeing and the scent beckoning you once more.

 _It’s alright_ , you told yourself. _Even if it’s not alright, I can get out quick. Worst case, I’ll hypnotize everyone_. It wasn’t like you were weak right now: if you needed to, you could run at full speed, which was faster than the blink of an eye. You just needed a little bit of a meal to refuel yourself for the next few days. As your predecessor constantly reminded you, it was important to feed regularly in case of a sudden food shortage.

Sashaying over to the entrance, you caught the bodyguard’s eye with your own. “Tell me, did a black haired fellow wearing a fur coat come by?” You asked. The bodyguard’s eyes glazed over, hypnosis setting in.

“Yeah… just a few minutes ago.” He nodded dully, “Should still be inside.”

“Thanks,” you grinned, being careful not to show off your teeth. “Forget we had this conversation, and forget you saw that man enter.”

“Don’t even know who you’re talking about, Miss.” He answered agreeably.

“Very good.” The bodyguard held the door open for you, the rain starting up again just as you entered.

As expected, the nightclub was a chaotic mess of strobe lights, music, grinding bodies, and the overwhelming stench of desperation. Wafting through that mass was the subtle fragrance of an irresistible meal. You followed the scent closely, trying not to be blindsided too much by your new and extremely crowded environment.

Halfway through the room, your idiocy hit you. Literally, it hit you.

You don’t know how and you don’t know who or what did it, but between one heartbeat and the next something smacked you in the back of your head. The blow didn’t actually hurt; it just caused you to stumble, losing your balance and becoming disoriented from the combination of bodies grinding around you, the flashing lights, and the loud noises. You couldn’t identify who hit you. In the next heartbeat, your neck stung. You immediately reached up, your hands burning as they came into contact with a silver chain— _shit.shit.shit.shit._ —the person holding the chain pulled tighter, and another person came into your field of vision with a set of silver handcuffs. _No!_

You ran.

Distantly, you heard people shouting in surprise and wondering what had shoved them all aside. You were already outside in a back alley, the silver chain still burning around your neck and the person who put it there still unfortunately attached to the other end.

 _Fear_. You could smell it coming off the other person in waves, even amid the pouring rain. _Good,_ you thought. _Be afraid you asshole_. You swiveled your head around, ignoring the burning pain as best you could—and _gods_ did it _hurt!_ It was like a thousand fire ants crawling across your neck and burrowing into your flesh— _focus!_ You told yourself. The guy was completely unfamiliar and wasn’t wearing a hunter uniform. Your eyes narrowed. Who was this guy and how did he know what hurt you if he wasn’t an official hunter? Honestly, he seemed like a random gang member. He gulped, loudly, his grip loosening just the tiniest bit on the chain. With one hand, you grabbed the chain, and with the other, you punched him. Your grip was stronger than his, holding the chain in place as he flew across the alleyway and into a dumpster.

You dropped the chain to the concrete floor, the burns still sizzling. Fresh wounds on your palms from touching the silver chain quickly healed, but your neck…

With a curse, you tilted your head back so the rain could sooth the burn marks. It would take a few minutes to heal, unless you drank blood. In the background, you heard the guy crawling across the garbage and attempting to get out of the dumpster.

“Here,” you said, racing over, grabbing him by the jacket, and harshly pulling him out of the dumpster, “Let me help you.”

“No! No! God, please, no! Let me go! Please let me go!”

“Why would I let someone who just tried to kill me go?”

“I didn’t mean it!”

“You didn’t mean it?” you hissed, shaking him back and forth. “What kind of answer is that? ‘Oh, mommy, I didn’t mean to take the cookie?’!”

“I wasn’t gonna kill you!” He blubbered, on the verge of outright wailing. The good news was that the pouring rain drowned out all of his ruckus, so no one was likely to come running—oh. Spoke too soon. The other guy, the one with the hand cuffs that you’d honestly completely forgotten about, rushed out of the nightclub’s back door and ran at you with a bat.

“Really?” You asked, side-stepping the swing at the very last moment. The guy smacked into the brick wall on the other side. He fell to his knees, stunned and gasping for breath.

“You’re fine.” You said. “Just take slow, deep breaths. You only got the wind knocked out of you, you dumbass.” You returned your attention to the guy currently in your hands. Shaking him again for good measure, you asked, “What do you mean, you ‘weren’t going to kill me?’ Then what were you going to do?”

The guy gulped. He wasn’t going to talk. Fine.

Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, you closed your eyes. It took a moment to shove aside the anger, the pain, the indignation and—yes, the humiliation of being such a _stupid_ _idiot_. When you’d shoved it all down, you opened your eyes and caught the gangster’s gaze with your own.

“What was your plan?” You asked sweetly.

His eyes glazed over. “We were going to take you to—” A bat hit him in the head. Automatically, you dropped him to the floor.

“Don’t look at her! You’ll be hypnotized!”

Right. The other guy. You’d forgotten he existed, _yet_ _again_.

“I’m being such a dummy tonight, aren’t I?” You sighed, rubbing your head. Your hair stuck to your fingers and your scalp unpleasantly, the rain pouring harder with each passing moment. You quickly became drenched to the bone.

Over the sound of the pouring rain, you heard a rhythmic wail. _Sirens_ , you thought, freezing. As much as you wanted answers, and as much as you _really_ wanted to drain these two idiots of their blood (even if it wasn’t in your nature to), if you were being smart, you didn’t have the time. It was moments like these that your predecessor would, begrudgingly, be proud of you. You grabbed the guy with the bat, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“You got in a fight with your buddy over here because you both wanted to bang the same chick. You never saw me. You don’t know who I am. You don’t know what I am. You don’t know what silver does to me or my kind.” You repeated this same hypnosis with the other guy, making sure that it had worked on both of them, and then quickly scaled the nearest building. Vaulting over onto the rooftop, you ducked down just in time for the cops to arrive outside of the nightclub. You bet the guy with the bat had called them.

 _That was close_ , you sighed. You began inching backwards, keeping your head down.

Not even two steps back and a hand came down on your shoulder, latching on in a very nonchalant, almost friendly manner. Just as you tensed up, ready for another fight, the scent hit you.

_It’s that guy!_

“So we meet again~” he hummed, almost singing.

 _Shit! He remembers! This is bad, this is bad, this is bad,_ you thought, trying so hard not to panic with every fiber of your being.

“I see you caused a bit of a commotion down there…” He said as he leaned over the edge to peer down at the policemen arresting the gang members. You fought the urge to yank him back and prevent him from being spotted; instead using the moment to attempt to inch away. The grip on your shoulder tightened, holding you in place. How could he have such a strong grip—was he really a hunter?! “I’d keep my head down if I were you, wouldn’t want to be spotted and all~”

He pulled you back by the shoulder of your jacket so the two of you were several feet away from the edge of the roof. Through the drizzle of rain, you could see the red and blue lights bouncing off the alleyway walls and smudging the air with their vibrant colors.

“What do you want?” You asked, attempting to shrug out of your jacket and away from him.

“Heh, that’s a funny thing to ask. Isn’t it _you_ that wants something?” He retorted, letting you go.

You quickly backed away from him, making sure to face him so you’d see whatever he’d do next. It was better to face an opponent head-on than to be surprised by their attacks.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Really now, you’re going to play that card? You don’t know what I’m talking about?” He interrupted you, removing something from his pocket with a flick of his wrist. The item glinted red and blue from the police car lighting. A reflection.

 _A knife_ , you thought, your heart pounding hard and fast inside of your chest. It could be a silver knife. This could be the end of you.

“I was expecting a bit more from you...” He went on idly. “Don’t take it the wrong way, it’s not as though I’m disappointed with you or anything. At least, not yet.”

Your eyes tracked the knife closely, watching as he laid it against the palm of his free hand and then—red dribbled onto the concrete roof. Rain mixed with it, diluting the thick color and weighing down the heavenly scent. You could feel your nostrils flaring, inhaling as much of it as you could from this distance. You didn’t move an inch.

“Hm,” he hummed and said something, you knew he did, but you honestly did not hear a single word he said.

The blood kept flowing, dripping onto the concrete roof. Your whole body felt heavier than a statue or a freight train of a thousand bricks, as though if someone were to push you with their picky finger, you’d fall over the edge of the roof, past ground level, and sink to the center of the earth.

If you moved, it would surely be to your death. That knife had to be made of silver. But you couldn’t leave that tempting scent behind either. So you didn’t move. Not. One. Inch.

You blinked, and suddenly he stood a mere foot away, waving the bleeding appendage in your face.

“Go on, it’s what you want, isn’t it?” He asked, offering the arm.

 _This is a bad idea_ , you thought, eyeing the proffered limb. It may be the worst idea on the face of the planet.... but that undeniable, inhuman _scent_. This close, you could practically feel his heart pounding, the blood thrumming through his veins, the hickory ribs and steak sautéed in a lucrative garlic and roasted pepper seasoning, the eye of a hurricane with the salty sting of the ocean, his inviting grin as each droplet fell, _wasted_ , onto the rooftop—

You grabbed his wrist and sunk your teeth into his palm. An explosion of flavors hit your tongue. Your eyes closed to savor the mouthwatering taste.

The back of your mind noticed something prick your neck, a sensation akin to a mosquito bite. You were too busy enjoying dinner to pay it much more mind.

If you had, you would’ve realized that your dinner had just given you a shot of who-knows-what. Said shot would explain a lot about why you were suddenly lying on the ground, blinking heavily against the rain.

“Have you figured out what I want yet?” He asked as you blinked.

Was the night getting darker or were you falling asleep? His lips moved, more words coming out, but these too, like the words he’d said earlier, escaped you.

The darkness enveloped you, a thick and impenetrable cloud, and for once in a very long time, you felt as though you might actually dream again...

“You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much melodrama. Such theatrics. Wow.


	6. (M) Chapter 4: The Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which your hunger is satiated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male-reader perspective.

You woke to arguing voices.

“Of all the inane ideas you’ve had, this is by far the worst!”

“Really now, arguing with your employer? Although I’m handsome, you shouldn’t mistake me for your brother.”

A muffled growl of frustration, the air thick and heavy. “I’m not feeding it.”

“I’m not asking you to. In fact, I’m not asking you to do anything beyond your normal duties. I’m simply informing you that this lovely creature will remain here for the rest of the week.”

 _What?!_ You sat bolt upright, taking in the two humans – one, distinctly familiar as the guy you’d fed from earlier in the week; the other, a distinctly unfamiliar female. The guy kept talking, ignoring your awakened state.

The surroundings were familiar too: this was his place, or at least the place he’d told you was his, where you had first tasted his blood. Nothing had been moved around or changed, except for the floor-to-ceiling glass window being entirely covered by thick, heavy drapes, and your abysmal presence on one of the couches.

“You can continue to work from here or you can work from your own home. It’s your choice Namie.” He grinned sharply, flashing pearly white teeth.

The female, noticing you were awake, visibly stiffened. Her hands clenched into fists, her breathing all but stopped, coming out in short puffs, and her pupils dilated. She didn’t smell interesting at all. In fact, she smelt like cleaning chemicals and unflavored meals. Her most distinguishing features, aside from her bland scent, were her long black hair and gaudy sweater. You decided she was boring and you would ignore her existence.

Your left ankle itched. When you reached a hand down to scratch the itch, you discovered something cold to the touch. A handcuff. It had to be made of some amount of silver, based on the irritating nature of it, but whatever else it was made of escaped you. Either way it was strong enough that when you tugged your foot, you knew it would not break. Not even with your superhuman strength.

You were trapped, ankle-cuffed to this stupid couch.

You quickly retracted your earlier decision to ignore the woman, realizing that she might be your only viable option of getting out of whatever sticky situation you’d gotten yourself into.

“I’ll be working from home.” She declared, lifting her chin and staring haughtily down her nose at the man, effectively destroying any backup plans you had of using her to get out of here.

The expression was made in vain, as the man no longer paid any attention to her. He watched you, grinning in a deceptively charming sort of way, while he answered her.

“Suit yourself Namie.” His dismissive response seemed to irk her more, going by the way she huffed loudly, grabbed a few bags, stomped over to the door, and slammed said door shut on her way out.

All throughout her noisemaking, he did not once stop staring at you. Even if you could escape through the door when she opened it, you probably would not have taken the chance. His scent distracted you from even the silver handcuff rubbing your ankle raw.

“How about we start with names?” He said more than asked.

He moved about fluidly as he spoke, nestling himself onto the couch across from you and taking up the entirety of the space by sprawling across it. His clothes moved such that you could see his jugular and _boy_ did that make you hungry. If gods existed, they were having a grand old laugh at your situation right now, you just knew it.

“I’m sure you have many questions, but I find it’s best to start with the simplest first. My name is Izaya Orihara. Although, I’ve likely already told you that, haven’t I?”

“No.” You answered, and found speaking difficult. Your mouth felt as dry as the sierra desert. This only made you hungrier.

How could you be so hungry anyways? Hadn’t you just tasted his blood moments ago? Or had you been out for hours? Days?! There was an uncomfortably clammy sensation in your hands, and it seemed as though your heart was pumping the blood in your veins too quickly.

You cleared your throat, “No, we did not trade names. _I_ do not trade names.”

“Shame. I guess I’ll just have to call you _pet_.”

The suggestion made your borrowed blood boil. You hissed, revealing your fangs.

“Do that and regret it.”

“Ooo~ threats. Are you sure you’re in a position to be making them right now? I mean, I’m not the one chained to a couch...”

You said nothing. Several minutes passed by in what felt like, to you, tense silence as you quietly seethed but what you knew to be, for him, a regular silence as he quietly watched you, a smug grin dancing about his features.

“Very well then,” he rose languidly from the couch. “We can discuss things further when you’re feeling a bit more _chatty_.”

“Wait!” You shouldn’t have said that.

Why did you say that? You didn’t know what this man was capable of, didn’t know what he _wanted_ from you—your blood, maybe? A lot of people were obsessed with vampire blood, even addicted to it. The blood temporarily gave them enhanced strength, an euphoric high, made them horny, healed wounds, and who knew what else. There was clearly no point in engaging with him, much less speaking to him. He would just say something that pissed you off again, or confused you, or tricked you. He had to be a trickster fairy.

He was looking at you expectantly. “Well?”

This was dumb. You were dumb. But you needed answers.

“I’m thirsty.”

And blood.

Despite the amusement clearly scrawled across his face, he tsked his tongue in admonishment and spoke as though disappointed.

“I already fed you—”

“When?” Your interruption startled him for the briefest of moments; so brief, if you were not a vampire you would not have caught it.

“Three nights ago.”

“I’ve been out for three nights?!”

This was bad. This was really, really, really, _really bad._ What had he done to you that you’d been out for so long?! Regular sedatives didn’t work on you—sure, there was something the hunters had that could put your kind to sleep temporarily, but you hadn’t the foggiest idea what and you’d never bothered investigating that for rightful fear of being caught by a hunter.

Did this mean he was working with a hunter? _Is he a hunter?!?!_ You cursed your bad luck and sheer idiocy. Your predecessor would not pity you right now. If he could still sense when you were in danger, you doubted he would come to your rescue.

“Yes, well,” he sighed, rubbing his neck and generally appearing quite cross with himself. “It wasn’t supposed to be three days, just three hours, but it seems my friend got a little overzealous.”

 _Overzealous with what?!_ You thought, only to immediately lose the train of thought to a rumbling in your stomach. The sensation was accompanied by the feeling of your teeth nipping the insides of your cheek. _Ouch._ The hunger made you wince.

No wonder you couldn’t break the handcuff on your ankle: you hadn’t eaten anything in several days, and you had some unknown, possibly lethal, substance running through your veins. You wouldn’t be surprised if, as a precaution, he’d kept giving you more of whatever drug to keep you weakened. You groaned. _I’m dead. I’m deader than dead._

“Hm. You know, for a mythical and supposedly immortal creature, you certainly are susceptible to many things. If I didn’t know better, I might even confuse you for a weak and pathetic human.”

 _Weak and pathetic?_ Oh~ this man really _pissed you off_. Whenever you got better you were gonna drain him.

Probably.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Killing people didn’t sit well with you, even when they were stupid and cruel. It’s why your predecessor advocated against you being forced to join the organization that hunted down the vampire hunters. He’d said something along the lines of, “diluting the organization’s strength” and “not letting one vampire lead to their downfall.” He’d had the best intentions, despite his resounding lack of faith in any of your non-existent capabilities. It all worked out in the end.

Except for this being captured by a human part and not having the slightest idea what to do about it.

You glowered at the strange man from your position, even as he offered his wrist to you.

“Well, go on. You said you were thirsty. Or was that a lie?”

You wanted to turn away from him, stick your nose in the air like that woman had earlier, but it was so hard to even conceptualize that action with how hungry you were and that _delicious_ aroma wafting just inches from your nose. Grilled, roasted, and skewered vegetables drizzled with a mildly spicy oil, and a poached egg on the side.

You buried your head into the couch.

This rebellion didn’t last long. Less than three seconds, in fact, before you popped your head up and sank your teeth in. Logically, if you drank, then you’d be able to heal yourself and recover from whatever he gave you and eventually escape. That was why you were drinking. Totally.

Except he pulled away too soon for you to be satisfied and when you tried to follow that bleeding limb, a silver knife flashed in the air, warding you off. You watched while he retreated to another side of the enormous room and proceeded to wrap some gauze bandages around his wrist.

“That’s not going to stop the bleeding.”

“It’ll _stem_ the bleeding.”

“You’ll still die.”

He laughed, “Is that so?”

You huffed impatiently. “Is it so hard to believe that a human can bleed out from a main artery being impaled?”

“And what alternative would you suggest?” He looked at you as he finished tightening the gauze wrapping.

“Letting me heal it, duh.”

You were being too nice. You shouldn’t offer to do that for him, especially what with his capturing you for unknown reasons and being aware of several things that could cause you great harm. It was better in the long run if he just bled out on you. Then you could escape.

But... then you wouldn’t be able to drink from him ever again.

“How do I know you’re not going to use that opportunity to drink more than you need, hm?” He settled quite comfortably into the chair behind the desk.

You couldn’t help it. You rolled your eyes.

“If I wanted to do that I’d just hypnotize you.”

Sometimes you were dumber than dirt. This was one of those times. You slapped your hands over your mouth while he flashed you an amused grin.

“Worried I might learn something I don’t already know?”

You were gonna wipe that smug smirk off his face, you swear to any deity that existed, you were gonna do it one of these days but first you were gonna continue to berate yourself for your stupidity.

 _Why didn’t I do that sooner?!?_ Like maybe when he offered you his wrist or when that lady was still here? _Ugh._ You bashed your head against the armrest of the couch, but the impact wasn’t painful.

“Rest assured I already know everything. I’m an information broker. It’s my job~” Even his voice sounded perpetually amused.

With nothing clever to say and the hunger still fogging up your brain, you kept your mouth shut. You refused to move a single inch. He wanted to torment you? Fine. He could do that while you ignored him.

This, like the rebellion, did not last long.

You poked your head up, peering over the armrest at him only to find that _he_ was ignoring _you! Jerk_ , you huffed.

His eyes flashed up, searing you with their intensity. Did he have red eyes or were you so hungry that you were hallucinating now?

 _Maybe he’s a vampire? Fairy? Demon? Do demons exist?_ You couldn’t be sure of the last one. Your predecessor had never covered them, only fairies, shapeshifters, witches, vampires, werewolves—wait.

 _Is he a witch?_ But weren’t witches only females? Why didn’t you pay closer attention to those lessons?! This was a life or death matter!

“Having fun over there~?”

“I’m hungry.” You snapped.

“Oh~ touchy, touchy. Alright, I get it,” he held his hands up in surrender. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’m hungry!” You repeated, hissing.

“Hm.” He stapled his fingers together, considering you. “Has anyone ever told you that you might look cute if you wore cat ears?”

You hissed again, showing off your fangs intentionally. His lips twitched in a teasing grin.

“Yes, very cute. I might even say erotic if I was into that sort of thing.” He leaned back in his chair while you ducked your head back down behind the armrest.

You could feel your face warming up weirdly. Was his blood toxic? Was it traveling in the wrong direction? Why was your face warm? Were you ill?

So many questions. No answers! You almost screamed but bit your lip instead. You almost started crying, too.

That’s when you realized it: you were getting grumpy from being so hungry. Even if he tolerated you now, he would not be able to survive for long. Your predecessor had only _once_ lasted three days of your impassioned moods when hungry. That was around when he instituted the “We must feed periodically and consistently” rule. To avoid your hunger-grumpiness.

“What was that?” He asked. Ah, you were grumbling.

“ _Huuuuungry_ ,” you gurgled behind the armrest.

He sighed.

“If you’re going to be like this all day then you won’t get dinner.”

“You won’t survive all day,” you answered. “You’ll bleed to death. I can smell it.”

“I am not bleeding to death. I am only…” Some strange noises, shuffling most likely. A quietly muttered curse. Something about ‘bleeding unnecessary amounts.’ You laughed quietly to yourself. You loved being right.

“Bleeding to death~” you hummed happily.

He sighed loudly, as though defeated. “Alright, I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you drink a little more _and_ heal this wound _if_ you answer two questions.”

“No.” You pretended to be bored and more interested in your pointy nails. Your stomach gurgled loudly, betraying you.

When you looked up, you found him waiting patiently, an expectant and all-too-pleased grin on his features.

“Fine,” you growled and beckoned him over with your hand.

He sauntered over in a deliberately slow fashion that pronounced his svelte limbs, the pulse in his veins, the way the gauze wrapping clotted with too much blood, that heavenly scent drifting through the air... You blinked and he stood in front of you again, the same arm as before being proffered.

You didn’t hesitant this time, quickly pulling the gauze wrapping off to sink your teeth into the deliciousness that awaited.

The sweet liquorish hit you hard and fast in the back of your throat: cotton candy and chocolates filled with cherries and vanilla cake with red velvet layered between and _roses_. _Oh, the smell of roses_. You let the scent flood your nose, flood all your senses, flood through your veins, flood until there was no end or beginning, it was just _there_ , eternally _there_.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Rolling your eyes open, you glanced up to find his face flushed.

It took you longer to register the bright red color splashed on his features than it normally would have, most likely because of the hunger and finally getting to enjoy this delightful treat. When it finally did register, you realized his blood tasted sweeter than it had moments ago.

You weren’t a fool. (Okay, maybe you were in many ways but not when it came to dinner.) Not many humans experienced this, but some of them, when they were happy or pleased or horny or what-have-you, their blood tasted better. You tucked that realization into the back of your mind for later use and pulled out your teeth, nipping one of your fingers so you could smear your blood across the open wounds and watching with unending satisfaction as the two holes closed up.

You grinned up at him, all teeth and fangs showing.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” You said and tried to catch his eye to hypnotize him, but he looked to the side, knowing what you were up to.

Then, suddenly, a smirk slanted across his face and he leaned down over you, his face inches from yours, so that you didn’t so much see or smell his invasion of your personal space as feel the entirety of his aura wrapping around you, trapping you in place with a wicked gaze.

“No, it wasn’t.”

And then he kissed you, the bastard, and when you made to move back, he followed along until you were flattened on the couch with a far-too-intoxicating human smothering the life out of your lungs. When he dared to shove his tongue in your mouth, you nipped it with the sharp edges of your teeth. He moaned. The sound rumbled down his chest, vibrating right into you.

He pulled back to straddle you around the waist, and watched you closely, running a finger down your cheek. You could feel yourself panting unnecessarily, electricity racing through your veins. The sweetness of his blood lingered on the tip of your tongue.

You wiggled uncomfortably.

That had been a bad idea, you knew, because he smirked at you again and said, none-too-gently.

“Why don’t we continue where we left off last time, hm?”

You were fucked. Literally.

With the way that he moved, hands drawing whimper after pitiful whimper out of you, gliding down your chest, clawing at your hips, at your waist, it wasn’t that you didn’t _want_ to do it. Because you did. Whatever he wanted to do to you, _gods_ , did you want him to get on with it already!

But it was exhausting. It was making you _hungry_.

You tried biting his neck but he pushed your head down by the forehead, _tsk_ ing in that almighty tone he always adopted.

“Is that all you can think about: drinking blood? There are better, more enjoyable things in life, you know.” He kissed you, gently, letting your teeth catch on his lip just _so_ that the delightful taste grazed your tongue, and then dragged his mouth down along your jawbone, peppering sweet little bites everywhere that his lips traced.

It was getting harder to breathe. You tried to push him up, to get some air back into your lungs, but you weren’t getting anywhere.

Exhaustion ate away at whatever strength you had left, whatever strength you’d garnered from the little blood you’d drank, and it felt like he just kept sucking the remaining energy right out of your veins, out of your neck, your collarbone, your stomach, your hip, and _oh_ if he would just move a little _closer already_. You tried wiggling again to get his mouth were you wanted it. He chuckled against your thigh, his breath puffing hot and moist and just _barely_ in the wrong place.

“The noises you’re making are so cute. Maybe if you beg, I’ll do what you want…”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He laughed again, the sound vibrating close enough as to make you whither and whimper. He did it again, intentionally, tracing his fingers lethargically against the hardness trapped in your pants, teasing _oh_ did the bastard know how to tease you.

“ _Please,_ ” you finally whined.

“Better.” He approved, unbuttoning your pants with a simple motion and freeing your erection so he could firmly cup your cock and begin to stroke. The entire action was quick, fluid, smooth, like he’d done this a thousand times before. He probably had. “Progress should be praised, like Pavlov did with the dogs in his canine study. Although that was more about conditioning than behaving well… but if you keep behaving nicely, I might not have to _punish_ you at all.”

He said punish with such wicked promise… it made you want to be _really bad_ … Whatever thought you’d had slipped away, and with each stroke, each tug, each coercing motion he made, you lost more and more of whatever he was saying.

“… positive stimulation is very effective, but too much of it causes indolence. Have you ever been indulgent? ...”

You’d had sex under the stars once, out in the forest; it was back when you were still young and okay with becoming exhausted and under your maker’s rule and so not entirely concerned about being in a dangerous situation because your maker would of course come and save you, and the boy you’d done it with had made the _sweetest_ sounds when you bit him and had rolled his hips _just like that, yes please, yes._

“… be any older than a student, really, but as they say, looks are deceiving.” He sighed, loudly, his strokes teetering on painful, “You’re not paying any attention, are you?” He chided gently, and stopped, oh bloody fucking _bastard!_ He _stopped_.

With a snarl, you reached up to bite his head off.

He twirled something in his hand, pressing it to your neck, where it stung. The silver knife registered, belatedly, and you let him push you back down into the couch with the blade at your neck. You kept your fangs out in a disgruntled scowl and tried to ignore the way this position was making your blood boil pleasantly.

He smirked. He knew. Knew the insufferable effect he was having on you right now and lorded it over you like the egotistical jerk he was.

“Don’t you know, you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you~” He purred. He nibbled the edges of your ear and scrapped his teeth along your neck, the silver blade still trapping you in place. You tried not to arch into each fleeting touch. Even the irony of his sentence, _you were a vampire, of course you bit the hand that fed you, that’s how you ate!_ escaped your attention.

Instead of saying anything intelligent, you just whimpered. Pitifully. When you had a chance, you would bite his head off. You’d like to do it slowly, but it would probably be safer to do it quickly.

The knife at your neck trailed down, slicing neatly through your shirt before he removed your pants the rest of the way. He flipped you over, none-too-gently, so you were on your stomach, and yanked the remains of your shirt down your back, twisting it around your arms. When he shoved a few fingers in your mouth with a simple command, “Suck,” you did just that because if you didn’t, it would hurt, and you didn’t really feel like hurting on top of being hungry and tired.

He racked the nails of his free hand along your lower back as you did so, eliciting a shiver, and made some noncommittal but notably approved sound.

“I shouldn’t be surprised you’re doing such a good job at this, but you’ve got such an innocent face, it’s hard to image you’re a monster. Maybe later, I’ll let you do something more productive with that mouth.”

You almost laughed at that. _You_? The _monster?_ He was the one that had you tied up on a couch. _And you’re the one that’s turned on by it_ , a dark little voice in your mind reminded you snidely. You ignored it. Even if it was true, that didn’t mean anything. It was just because he smelled nice. And tasted nice.

And knew exactly where to shove his fingers at exactly the right moment.

He wasn’t gentle about it either, but the discomfort only made you more aware of when he curled his fingers at just the right moment, curled them so that they brushed the spot you wanted them to, curbed the itch that burned through your veins, and he kept doing it too, doing it so nicely, so thoroughly, you almost started to cry at the pleasant sensation. It was the only good thing about sex: it felt _almost_ as good as blood tasted.

When he pulled his fingers out, you bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to throttled him for taking too long while he aligned himself properly. He leaned forward to say something in your ear, to which you hissed, “Get on with it already.”

“Very well then.”

You bit your cheek again, the discomfort transforming into something inappropriately painful, and told yourself to _breath, breath, breath_ because this wasn’t anywhere near as painful as your first time, it was just really a little irritation, a dull ache that would go away, but _gods_ did it _hurt_.

He stopped moving, which irked you even more because if he would just keep moving then you’d hurry up and get used to the sensations already, but _noooo_ he had to be a big dummy and—

Pumpkin spice. You smelt pumpkin spice.

You cracked open an eye, only then realizing you’d had them closed, to find he was holding a bleeding wrist near your mouth. You almost purred at the offering. Instead you bit it.

And then he started to move.

Whatever you thought before—sex being _almost_ as good as blood tasted or Izaya’s blood being the most flavorful you’d come across so far or sex underneath the stars being fun in a risky sort of way or even the moment your maker freed you, that sensation of chains unraveling from you, the thought that you could fly forever and ever and ever and not have to worry about a stupid freaking unneeded bedtime anymore—none of it compared. None of it to drinking something heavenly, the sweet undertones becoming more and more pronounced with each passing second, and fucking at the same time.

You came shortly after he did, savoring the exact moment when the sweetness on your tongue had you convinced it was a strawberry cheesecake and not some coppery liquid from a living body.

Regrettably, you sealed the wound soon after. You’d lost track of how much you’d had to drink, and you doubted the human had kept any track at all. You also doubted he would tell you if he felt lightheaded.

 _You_ felt lightheaded.

You laughed breathlessly, curling your toes and purring quietly at the warmth thrumming through your veins. It was like you were _alive_ again, if only for a fleeting heartbeat. Exhaustion echoed throughout your bones, your muscles, but it was somehow pleasant to be tired for a moment. Just a moment.

He chuckled somewhere behind and above you, detangling himself from you with a few simple maneuvers, and pulled the shirt knotted around your arms off. After a moment, he draped the shirt on top of you. It didn’t cover all of you, but enough that you didn’t bother adjusting it.

“No, that wasn’t so bad at all,” he hummed.

~

Hardly an hour later, the fatigue had become unbearable, making you huff and groan tiredly. You hadn’t moved an inch during that time, too tired to do so much as lift a finger. It didn’t help that a hollow pit had formed in your stomach. _Hunger_ pierced right through it.

The pleasant haze from sex had long since disappeared, replaced with a catalogue of how you felt sticky, gross, cold, hot, and your stupid ankle was still tied to the couch.

If you hadn’t had sex, then you wouldn’t have used an exorbitant amount of energy, and you wouldn’t be so tired, much less hungry, right now. You groaned again.

“Keep making that noise and I may just want to do it again.” Izaya drawled from his languid position on the other couch. He appeared far too… _relaxed_ for all that the two of you had just done. A whimper caught in the back of your throat, one of pain or wanting or tiredness or hunger, you couldn’t say for certain. You left the whimper back there, remembering Izaya’s words and really not wanting to die from exhaustion.

“I’m hungry.”

“Again?” He asked, surprised. He wore a different expression than everything else you’d seen him make so far. It was… honest.

“Yes,” you huffed instead of snapped. “I get hungry when I exert too much energy, and you made me exert too much energy. So feed me.”

He laughed, a loud, vibrant, full-bodied sound that had him tossing his head back in unabashed mirth. When the laughter subsided to a chuckle, he wiped at the corners of his eyes, sitting up and leaning over the coffee table to grin at you.

“The position that you’re in… and you make such honest demands. Heh.” He rose, strolling over to you. “Alright, you are the _pet_ after all and as the owner, I should feed you. So here, eat.” He pulled his wrist back just as you were about to bite down, chiding you, “ _Slowly._ ”

You almost bit his whole hand off for that comment, that jerk. You _knew_ how to eat slowly, you’d been a vampire for a while now, you weren’t some stumbling fledging!

Still, you made an exaggerated point of digging your fangs in at an excruciatingly slow pace.

He winced.

 _Good_ , the disgruntled part of you hissed. The rest of your attention swiftly diverted to counting how long you were drinking. His blood didn’t taste as sweet as it did before, during sex… you tried not to be disappointed, and told yourself that exerting energy to make it taste better would be pointless.

When you’d had enough, you closed the wounds up and promptly threw yourself back on the couch, deciding to ignore the stupid human and your currently trapped state. You gave an experimental tug on the ankle-cuff. It didn’t budge. _Hrmph!_

Izaya chuckled.

“Depressed already? And just after feeding too… As a creature that survives by feeding off of others, you’ve probably considered the ethicality of your lifestyle. I’ve heard that serial killers don’t really think of themselves as murders. Instead, they imagine that they’re freeing their victims of a pointless existence. Tell me, do you think of yourself that way too? Or are you regretting draining people of their blood?”

“I don’t drain people,” you barked harshly. “I only eat what I need. And unlike you, I don’t kidnap people either.”

He laughed, the sound sudden and delightful, the reverberations pronouncing the veins in his neck.

“A saint of a vampire, my, my, I never thought I’d say those words together. Alright, I’ve fed you, and you seem to be in a more chatty mood, so now I get to ask you two questions.”

 _How does he even remember that deal?_ You gaffed, hardly able to recall, through the fatigue still tingeing the edges of your vision, what you’d done _last freaking night!_

“You already asked one.” You answered, after a moment of sulking. He’d actually asked _two_ but you only answered _one_ , so you counted it as one.

His gaze narrowed.

“You asked, ‘Are you regretting _draining_ people?’ and I answered it. One question left.”

His teeth flashed in a mockery of a grin; it was a cold contrast to the warmth of his laughter just moments ago, the heat of his fingers blazing trails along your flesh… You could feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise… _Maybe I shouldn’t ‘poke the bear’ until I’ve gotten free…_

“Heh, clever.” He drawled. “Alright, you’ve caught me there. _One question._ ” His cruel grin didn’t change. “Why should I let you live?”

The question froze you. He couldn’t really mean he would… he would _kill_ you? Before you opened your mouth, he held up a hand and added more.

“Ah, ah, careful. You only get _one_ answer. Make it good.”

“I gave you _two_ questions. Why do I only get _one_ answer?”

“You said it yourself; I already asked one question, and you gave _one_ answer. So you have _one answer_ left.”

 _Stupid freakin’ smirking hot smother-me-now with those wicked eyes bastard_ , you grit your teeth. The indignation rushed up through you, transforming the cold pit in your stomach into a hazy red fog around your brain. You grit your teeth some more and pushed the fog back to think, but you let the indignation smolder. It was better to be pissed off than afraid. Fear froze you. Anger fueled you.

You thought about your answer for a minute, eying the smug bastard, and then it clicked. The perfect answer.

“I’m a vampire.”

He raised his eyebrow expectantly. When you said nothing else, he prompted you with, “… _and?_ ”

“That’s it. I’m a vampire.”

His smug smirk tapered at the edges into a sympathetic expression.

“I know it must be difficult to think with your life on the line, so I’ll give you another minute to come up with an answer.”

“That is my answer: I. Am. A. Vampire. What, do you want me to spell it out for you? You’re the one that kidnapped me, that tied me up to this couch with this stupid ankle-cuff, that’s asking me for a reason, that obviously has _so many_ questions for me. You already know I’m a vampire. If you wanted me dead, you would’ve done it already, you wouldn’t have wasted your blood on me. But no, you kept me alive, and you did it for a reason and that reason is because _I am a vampire._ ”

His smug expression didn’t shift, even as he slow-clapped at your answer. Each smack of his hands grated against your eardrums. How could this bastard still be so confident?

“Very good. And here I was beginning to think that you might be dimwitted and slow. I’m glad to see you’ve proven me wrong there. This wouldn’t be much fun if you didn’t have at least _half_ a brain. Since you did so well, I’ll let you ask me a question, any question, in turn.”

The question you should ask was quite obvious: _what did he want with you?_ And although the question burned and itched to come out, you pushed it down. You may not have known what you were getting into or who this guy really was, but it was obvious this was all a game to him. It was just like with any of the vampire hunters. A game of cat and mouse.

You refused to be the mouse.

“No thanks.”

You turned from him, turned from his ridiculously smug expression, curled into a little ball at the edge of the couch, and promptly went to sleep.

He harrumphed indifferently, “Have it your way.”


	7. (F) Chapter 4: The Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which your hunger is satiated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female-reader perspective.

You woke to arguing voices.

“Of all the inane ideas you’ve had, this is by far the worst!”

“Really now, arguing with your employer? Although I’m handsome, you shouldn’t mistake me for your brother.”

A muffled growl of frustration, the air thick and heavy. “I’m not feeding it.”

“I’m not asking you to. In fact, I’m not asking you to do anything beyond your normal duties. I’m simply informing you that this lovely creature will remain here for the rest of the week.”

 _What?!_ You sat bolt upright, taking in the two humans – one, distinctly familiar as the guy you’d fed from earlier in the week; the other, a distinctly unfamiliar female. The guy kept talking, ignoring your awakened state.

The surroundings were familiar too: this was his place, or at least the place he’d told you was his, where you had first tasted his blood. Nothing had been moved around or changed, except for the floor-to-ceiling glass window being entirely covered by thick, heavy drapes, and your abysmal presence on one of the couches.

“You can continue to work from here or you can work from your own home. It’s your choice Namie.” He grinned sharply, flashing pearly white teeth.

The female, noticing you were awake, visibly stiffened. Her hands clenched into fists, her breathing all but stopped, coming out in short puffs, and her pupils dilated. She didn’t smell interesting at all. In fact, she smelt like cleaning chemicals and unflavored meals. Her most distinguishing features, aside from her bland scent, were her long black hair and gaudy sweater. You decided she was boring and you would ignore her existence.

Your left ankle itched. When you reached a hand down to scratch the itch, you discovered something cold to the touch. A handcuff. It had to be made of some amount of silver, based on the irritating nature of it, but whatever else it was made of escaped you. Either way it was strong enough that when you tugged your foot, you knew it would not break. Not even with your superhuman strength.

You were trapped, ankle-cuffed to this stupid couch.

You quickly retracted your earlier decision to ignore the woman, realizing that she might be your only viable option of getting out of whatever sticky situation you’d gotten yourself into.

“I’ll be working from home.” She declared, lifting her chin and staring haughtily down her nose at the man, effectively destroying any backup plans you had of using her to get out of here.

The expression was made in vain, as the man no longer paid any attention to her. He watched you, grinning in a deceptively charming sort of way, while he answered her.

“Suit yourself Namie.” His dismissive response seemed to irk her more, going by the way she huffed loudly, grabbed a few bags, stomped over to the door, and slammed said door shut on her way out.

All throughout her noisemaking, he did not once stop staring at you. Even if you could escape through the door when she opened it, you probably would not have taken the chance. His scent distracted you from even the silver handcuff rubbing your ankle raw.

“How about we start with names?” He said more than asked.

He moved about fluidly as he spoke, nestling himself onto the couch across from you and taking up the entirety of the space by sprawling across it. His clothes moved such that you could see his jugular and _boy_ did that make you hungry. If gods existed, they were having a grand old laugh at your situation right now, you just knew it.

“I’m sure you have many questions, but I find it’s best to start with the simplest first. My name is Izaya Orihara. Although, I’ve likely already told you that, haven’t I?”

“No.” You answered, and found speaking difficult. Your mouth felt as dry as the sierra desert. This only made you hungrier.

How could you be so hungry anyways? Hadn’t you just tasted his blood moments ago? Or had you been out for hours? Days?! There was an uncomfortably clammy sensation in your hands, and it seemed as though your heart was pumping the blood in your veins too quickly.

You cleared your throat, “No, we did not trade names. _I_ do not trade names.”

“Shame. I guess I’ll just have to call you _pet_.”

The suggestion made your borrowed blood boil. You hissed, revealing your fangs.

“Do that and regret it.”

“Ooo~ threats. Are you sure you’re in a position to be making them right now? I mean, I’m not the one chained to a couch...”

You said nothing. Several minutes passed by in what felt like, to you, tense silence as you quietly seethed but what you knew to be, for him, a regular silence as he quietly watched you, a smug grin dancing about his features.

“Very well then,” he rose languidly from the couch. “We can discuss things further when you’re feeling a bit more _chatty_.”

“Wait!” You shouldn’t have said that.

Why did you say that? You didn’t know what this man was capable of, didn’t know what he _wanted_ from you—your blood, maybe? A lot of people were obsessed with vampire blood, even addicted to it. The blood temporarily gave them enhanced strength, an euphoric high, made them horny, healed wounds, and who knew what else. There was clearly no point in engaging with him, much less speaking to him. He would just say something that pissed you off again, or confused you, or tricked you. He had to be a trickster fairy.

He was looking at you expectantly. “Well?”

This was dumb. You were dumb. But you needed answers.

“I’m thirsty.”

And blood.

Despite the amusement clearly scrawled across his face, he tsked his tongue in admonishment and spoke as though disappointed.

“I already fed you—”

“When?” Your interruption startled him for the briefest of moments; so brief, if you were not a vampire you would not have caught it.

“Three nights ago.”

“I’ve been out for three nights?!”

This was bad. This was really, really, really, _really bad._ What had he done to you that you’d been out for so long?! Regular sedatives didn’t work on you—sure, there was something the hunters had that could put your kind to sleep temporarily, but you hadn’t the foggiest idea what and you’d never bothered investigating that for rightful fear of being caught by a hunter.

Did this mean he was working with a hunter? _Is he a hunter?!?!_ You cursed your bad luck and sheer idiocy. Your predecessor would not pity you right now. If he could still sense when you were in danger, you doubted he would come to your rescue.

“Yes, well,” he sighed, rubbing his neck and generally appearing quite cross with himself. “It wasn’t supposed to be three days, just three hours, but it seems my friend got a little overzealous.”

 _Overzealous with what?!_ You thought, only to immediately lose the train of thought to a rumbling in your stomach. The sensation was accompanied by the feeling of your teeth nipping the insides of your cheek. _Ouch._ The hunger made you wince.

No wonder you couldn’t break the handcuff on your ankle: you hadn’t eaten anything in several days, and you had some unknown, possibly lethal, substance running through your veins. You wouldn’t be surprised if, as a precaution, he’d kept giving you more of whatever drug to keep you weakened. You groaned. _I’m dead. I’m deader than dead._

“Hm. You know, for a mythical and supposedly immortal creature, you certainly are susceptible to many things. If I didn’t know better, I might even confuse you for a weak and pathetic human.”

 _Weak and pathetic?_ Oh~ this man really _pissed you off_. Whenever you got better you were gonna drain him.

Probably.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Killing people didn’t sit well with you, even when they were stupid and cruel. It’s why your predecessor advocated against you being forced to join the organization that hunted down the vampire hunters. He’d said something along the lines of, “diluting the organization’s strength” and “not letting one vampire lead to their downfall.” He’d had the best intentions, despite his resounding lack of faith in any of your non-existent capabilities. It all worked out in the end.

Except for this being captured by a human part and not having the slightest idea what to do about it.

You glowered at the strange man from your position, even as he offered his wrist to you.

“Well, go on. You said you were thirsty. Or was that a lie?”

You wanted to turn away from him, stick your nose in the air like that woman had earlier, but it was so hard to even conceptualize that action with how hungry you were and that _delicious_ aroma wafting just inches from your nose. Grilled, roasted, and skewered vegetables drizzled with a mildly spicy oil, and a poached egg on the side.

You buried your head into the couch.

This rebellion didn’t last long. Less than three seconds, in fact, before you popped your head up and sank your teeth in. Logically, if you drank, then you’d be able to heal yourself and recover from whatever he gave you and eventually escape. That was why you were drinking. Totally.

Except he pulled away too soon for you to be satisfied and when you tried to follow that bleeding limb, a silver knife flashed in the air, warding you off. You watched while he retreated to another side of the enormous room and proceeded to wrap some gauze bandages around his wrist.

“That’s not going to stop the bleeding.”

“It’ll _stem_ the bleeding.”

“You’ll still die.”

He laughed, “Is that so?”

You huffed impatiently. “Is it so hard to believe that a human can bleed out from a main artery being impaled?”

“And what alternative would you suggest?” He looked at you as he finished tightening the gauze wrapping.

“Letting me heal it, duh.”

You were being too nice. You shouldn’t offer to do that for him, especially what with his capturing you for unknown reasons and being aware of several things that could cause you great harm. It was better in the long run if he just bled out on you. Then you could escape.

But... then you wouldn’t be able to drink from him ever again.

“How do I know you’re not going to use that opportunity to drink more than you need, hm?” He settled quite comfortably into the chair behind the desk.

You couldn’t help it. You rolled your eyes.

“If I wanted to do that I’d just hypnotize you.”

Sometimes you were dumber than dirt. This was one of those times. You slapped your hands over your mouth while he flashed you an amused grin.

“Worried I might learn something I don’t already know?”

You were gonna wipe that smug smirk off his face, you swear to any deity that existed, you were gonna do it one of these days but first you were gonna continue to berate yourself for your stupidity.

 _Why didn’t I do that sooner?!?_ Like maybe when he offered you his wrist or when that lady was still here? _Ugh._ You bashed your head against the armrest of the couch, but the impact wasn’t painful.

“Rest assured I already know everything. I’m an information broker. It’s my job~” Even his voice sounded perpetually amused.

With nothing clever to say and the hunger still fogging up your brain, you kept your mouth shut. You refused to move a single inch. He wanted to torment you? Fine. He could do that while you ignored him.

This, like the rebellion, did not last long.

You poked your head up, peering over the armrest at him only to find that _he_ was ignoring _you! Jerk_ , you huffed.

His eyes flashed up, searing you with their intensity. Did he have red eyes or were you so hungry that you were hallucinating now?

 _Maybe he’s a vampire? Fairy? Demon? Do demons exist?_ You couldn’t be sure of the last one. Your predecessor had never covered them, only fairies, shapeshifters, witches, vampires, werewolves—wait.

 _Is he a witch?_ But weren’t witches only females? Why didn’t you pay closer attention to those lessons?! This was a life or death matter!

“Having fun over there~?”

“I’m hungry.” You snapped.

“Oh~ touchy, touchy. Alright, I get it,” he held his hands up in surrender. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’m hungry!” You repeated, hissing.

“Hm.” He stapled his fingers together, considering you. “Has anyone ever told you that you might look cute if you wore cat ears?”

You hissed again, showing off your fangs intentionally. His lips twitched in a teasing grin.

“Yes, very cute. I might even say erotic if I was into that sort of thing.” He leaned back in his chair while you ducked your head back down behind the armrest.

You could feel your face warming up weirdly. Was his blood toxic? Was it traveling in the wrong direction? Why was your face warm? Were you ill?

So many questions. No answers! You almost screamed but bit your lip instead. You almost started crying, too.

That’s when you realized it: you were getting grumpy from being so hungry. Even if he tolerated you now, he would not be able to survive for long. Your predecessor had only _once_ lasted three days of your impassioned moods when hungry. That was around when he instituted the “We must feed periodically and consistently” rule. To avoid your hunger-grumpiness.

“What was that?” He asked. Ah, you were grumbling.

“ _Huuuuungry_ ,” you gurgled behind the armrest.

He sighed.

“If you’re going to be like this all day then you won’t get dinner.”

“You won’t survive all day,” you answered. “You’ll bleed to death. I can smell it.”

“I am not bleeding to death. I am only…” Some strange noises, shuffling most likely. A quietly muttered curse. Something about ‘bleeding unnecessary amounts.’ You giggled to yourself. You loved being right.

“Bleeding to death~” you sang.

He sighed loudly, as though defeated. “Alright, I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you drink a little more _and_ heal this wound _if_ you answer two questions.”

“No.” You pretended to be bored and more interested in your pointy nails. Your stomach gurgled loudly, betraying you.

When you looked up, you found him waiting patiently, an expectant and all-too-pleased grin on his features.

“Fine,” you growled and beckoned him over with your hand.

He sauntered over in a deliberately slow fashion that pronounced his svelte limbs, the pulse in his veins, the way the gauze wrapping clotted with too much blood, that heavenly scent drifting through the air... You blinked and he stood in front of you again, the same arm as before being proffered.

You didn’t hesitant this time, quickly pulling the gauze wrapping off to sink your teeth into the deliciousness that awaited.

The sweet liquorish hit you hard and fast in the back of your throat: cotton candy and chocolates filled with cherries and vanilla cake with red velvet layered between and _roses_. _Oh, the smell of roses_. You let the scent flood your nose, flood all your senses, flood through your veins, flood until there was no end or beginning, it was just _there_ , eternally _there_.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Rolling your eyes open, you glanced up to find his face flushed.

It took you longer to register the bright red color splashed on his features than it normally would have, most likely because of the hunger and finally getting to enjoy this delightful treat. When it finally did register, you realized his blood tasted sweeter than it had moments ago.

You weren’t a fool. (Okay, maybe you were in many ways but not when it came to dinner.) Not many humans experienced this, but some of them, when they were happy or pleased or horny or what-have-you, their blood tasted better. You tucked that realization into the back of your mind for later use and pulled out your teeth, nipping one of your fingers so you could smear your blood across the open wounds and watching with unending satisfaction as the two holes closed up.

You grinned up at him, all teeth and fangs showing.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” You said and tried to catch his eye to hypnotize him, but he looked to the side, knowing what you were up to.

Then, suddenly, a smirk slanted across his face and he leaned down over you, his face inches from yours, so that you didn’t so much see or smell his invasion of your personal space as feel the entirety of his aura wrapping around you, trapping you in place with a wicked gaze.

“No, it wasn’t.”

And then he kissed you, the bastard, and when you made to move back, he followed along until you were flattened on the couch with a far-too-intoxicating human smothering the life out of your lungs. When he dared to shove his tongue in your mouth, you nipped it with the sharp edges of your teeth. He moaned. The sound rumbled down his chest, vibrating right into you.

He pulled back to straddle you around the waist, and watched you closely, running a finger down your cheek, and a free hand down your chest. You could feel yourself panting unnecessarily, electricity racing through your veins. The sweetness of his blood lingered on the tip of your tongue.

You wiggled uncomfortably.

That had been a bad idea, you knew, because he smirked at you again and said, none-too-gently.

“Why don’t we continue where we left off last time, hm?”

You were fucked. Literally.

With the way that he moved, hands drawing whimper after pitiful whimper out of you, gently kneading your breasts, clawing at your hips, at your waist, it wasn’t that you didn’t _want_ to do it. Because you did. Whatever he wanted to do to you, _gods_ , did you want him to get on with it already!

But it was exhausting. It was making you _hungry_.

You tried biting his neck but he pushed your head down by the forehead, _tsk_ ing in that almighty tone he always adopted.

“Is that all you can think about: drinking blood? There are better, more enjoyable things in life, you know.” He kissed you, gently, letting your teeth catch on his lip just _so_ that the delightful taste grazed your tongue, and then dragged his mouth down along your jawbone, peppering sweet little bites everywhere that his lips traced.

It was getting harder to breathe. You tried to push him up, to get some air back into your lungs, but you weren’t getting anywhere.

Exhaustion ate away at whatever strength you had left, whatever strength you’d garnered from the little blood you’d drank, and it felt like he just kept sucking the remaining energy right out of your veins, out of your neck, your collarbone, your stomach, your hip, and _oh_ if he would just move a little _closer already_. You tried wiggling again to get his mouth were you wanted it. He chuckled against your thigh, his breath puffing hot and moist and just _barely_ in the wrong place.

“The noises you’re making are so cute. Maybe if you beg, I’ll do what you want…”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He laughed again, the sound vibrating close enough as to make you whither and whimper. He did it again, intentionally, tracing his fingers lethargically up your thigh, teasing _oh_ did the bastard know how to tease you.

“ _Please,_ ” you finally whined.

“Better.” He approved, slipping his hand underneath your waistband and curling them quite perfectly inside you. “Progress should be praised, like Pavlov did with the dogs in his canine study. Although that was more about conditioning than behaving well… but if you keep behaving nicely, I might not have to _punish_ you at all.”

He said punish with such wicked promise… it made you want to be _really bad_ … Whatever thought you’d had slipped away, and with each thrust, each brush of his fingers, each coercing movement he made, you lost more and more of whatever he was saying.

“… positive stimulation is very effective, but too much of it causes indolence. Have you ever been indulgent? ...”

You’d had sex in the vineyard of a palace once, just out of eyesight of the guardsmen; it was back when you were still young and okay with becoming exhausted and under your maker’s rule and so not entirely concerned about being in a dangerous situation because your maker would of course come and save you, and the man you’d done it with had know exactly how to move, what sweet nothings to say, and when you bit him he had rolled his hips _just like that, yes please, yes._

“… be any older than a student, really, but as they say, looks are deceiving.” He sighed, loudly, his strokes teetering on painful, “You’re not paying any attention, are you?” He chided gently, and stopped, oh bloody fucking _bastard!_ He _stopped_.

With a snarl, you reached up to bite his head off.

He twirled something in his hand, pressing it to your neck, where it stung. The silver knife registered, belatedly, and you let him push you back down into the couch with the blade at your neck. You kept your fangs out in a disgruntled scowl and tried to ignore the way this position was making your blood boil pleasantly.

He smirked. He knew. Knew the insufferable effect he was having on you right now and lorded it over you like the egotistical jerk he was.

“Don’t you know, you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you~” He purred. He nibbled the edges of your ear and scrapped his teeth along your neck, the silver blade still trapping you in place. You tried not to arch into each fleeting touch. Even the irony of his sentence, _you were a vampire, of course you bit the hand that fed you, that’s how you ate!_ escaped your attention.

Instead of saying anything intelligent, you just whimpered. Pitifully. When you had a chance, you would bite his head off. You’d like to do it slowly, but it would probably be safer to do it quickly.

The knife at your neck trailed down, slicing neatly through your shirt and bra so that your breasts were exposed. He massaged them for a bit, and even worshipped them with his mouth, to which you swallowed a purr. He was just distracting you, you knew, while he did away entirely with your panties and maneuvered himself around. You could hear some sounds, a rustling of plastic, and promptly said to him;

“Don’t bother. There’s no point.”

“Just because conception isn’t possible—”

“I’m not diseased.” This part always annoyed you. The questions, the confusion, the hesitance, the explanation that _no_ you can’t get pregnant, no vampire can, and _no_ you can’t get any diseases either so quite _stalling already!_

Thankfully, he seemed to get it. “And even if I am, you’ll heal. How convenient.”

He traced his fingers along your clitoris, teasing you, probably trying to work you back up given how quickly the high had fled for annoyance. You bit the inside of your cheek, reminding yourself to relax, while he grazed the nails of his free hand down your waist and across your hip bone, eliciting a shiver from you. At the same time, he curled his fingers back inside you, curled them so that they brushed the spot you wanted them to, curbed the itch that alighted in your veins, and he kept doing it too, doing it so nicely, so thoroughly, bringing you right back up against the edge that you almost started to cry at the pleasant sensation. It was the only good thing about sex: it felt _almost_ as good as blood tasted.

When he pulled his fingers out, you bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to throttled him for taking too long while he began pressing himself against you. He leaned forward to say something in your ear, to which you hissed, “Get on with it already.”

“Very well then.”

He stopped moving once he was inside you, which irked you even more because it wasn’t like this was your bloody first time, what was he trying to be a saint?! All you wanted was a little bit of satisfaction, but _noooo_ he had to be a big dummy and—

Pumpkin spice. You smelt pumpkin spice.

You cracked open an eye, only then realizing you’d had them closed, to find he was holding a bleeding wrist near your mouth. You almost purred at the offering. Instead you bit it.

And then he started to move.

Whatever you thought before—sex being _almost_ as good as blood tasted or Izaya’s blood being the most flavorful you’d come across so far or sex with a prince in a palace's vineyard being fun in a risky sort of way or even the moment your maker freed you, that sensation of chains unraveling from you, the thought that you could fly forever and ever and ever and not have to worry about a stupid freaking unneeded bedtime anymore—none of it compared. None of it to drinking something heavenly, the sweet undertones becoming more and more pronounced with each passing second, and fucking at the same time.

You came shortly after he did, savoring the exact moment when the sweetness on your tongue had you convinced it was a strawberry cheesecake and not some coppery liquid from a living body.

Regrettably, you sealed the wound soon after. You’d lost track of how much you’d had to drink, and you doubted the human had kept any track at all. You also doubted he would tell you if he felt lightheaded.

 _You_ felt lightheaded.

You giggled, curling your toes and purring quietly at the warmth thrumming through your veins. It was like you were _alive_ again, if only for a fleeting heartbeat. Exhaustion echoed throughout your bones, your muscles, but it was somehow pleasant to be tired for a moment. Just a moment.

He chuckled above you, detangling himself from you with a few simple maneuvers. After a moment, he draped a blanket on top of you. It didn’t cover all of you, but enough that you didn’t bother adjusting it.

“No, that wasn’t so bad at all,” he hummed.

~

Hardly an hour later, the fatigue had become unbearable, making you huff and groan tiredly. You hadn’t moved an inch during that time, too tired to do so much as lift a finger. It didn’t help that a hollow pit had formed in your stomach. _Hunger_ pierced right through it.

The pleasant haze from sex had long since disappeared, replaced with a catalogue of how you felt sticky, gross, cold, hot, and your stupid ankle was still tied to the couch.

If you hadn’t had sex, then you wouldn’t have used an exorbitant amount of energy, and you wouldn’t be so tired, much less hungry, right now. You groaned again.

“Keep making that noise and I may just want to do it again.” Izaya drawled from his languid position on the other couch. He appeared far too… _relaxed_ for all that the two of you had just done. A whimper caught in the back of your throat, one of pain or wanting or tiredness or hunger, you couldn’t say for certain. You left the whimper back there, remembering Izaya’s words and really not wanting to die from exhaustion.

“I’m hungry.”

“Again?” He asked, surprised. He wore a different expression than everything else you’d seen him make so far. It was… honest.

“Yes,” you huffed instead of snapped. “I get hungry when I exert too much energy, and you made me exert too much energy. So feed me.”

He laughed, a loud, vibrant, full-bodied sound that had him tossing his head back in unabashed mirth. When the laughter subsided to a chuckle, he wiped at the corners of his eyes, sitting up and leaning over the coffee table to grin at you.

“The position that you’re in… and you make such honest demands. Heh.” He rose, strolling over to you. “Alright, you are the _pet_ after all and as the owner, I should feed you. So here, eat.” He pulled his wrist back just as you were about to bite down, chiding you, “ _Slowly._ ”

You almost bit his whole hand off for that comment, that jerk. You _knew_ how to eat slowly, you’d been a vampire for a while now, you weren’t some stumbling fledging!

Still, you made an exaggerated point of digging your fangs in at an excruciatingly slow pace.

He winced.

 _Good_ , the disgruntled part of you hissed. The rest of your attention swiftly diverted to counting how long you were drinking. His blood didn’t taste as sweet as it did before, during sex… you tried not to be disappointed, and told yourself that exerting energy to make it taste better would be pointless.

When you’d had enough, you closed the wounds up and promptly threw yourself back on the couch, deciding to ignore the stupid human and your currently trapped state. You gave an experimental tug on the ankle-cuff. It didn’t budge. _Hrmph!_

Izaya chuckled.

“Depressed already? And just after feeding too… As a creature that survives by feeding off of others, you’ve probably considered the ethicality of your lifestyle. I’ve heard that serial killers don’t really think of themselves as murders. Instead, they imagine that they’re freeing their victims of a pointless existence. Tell me, do you think of yourself that way too? Or are you regretting draining people of their blood?”

“I don’t drain people,” you barked harshly. “I only eat what I need. And unlike you, I don’t kidnap people either.”

He laughed, the sound sudden and delightful, the reverberations pronouncing the veins in his neck.

“A saint of a vampire, my, my, I never thought I’d say those words together. Alright, I’ve fed you, and you seem to be in a more chatty mood, so now I get to ask you two questions.”

 _How does he even remember that deal?_ You gaffed, hardly able to recall, through the fatigue still tingeing the edges of your vision, what you’d done _last freaking night!_

“You already asked one.” You answered, after a moment of sulking. He’d actually asked _two_ but you only answered _one_ , so you counted it as one.

His gaze narrowed.

“You asked, ‘Are you regretting _draining_ people?’ and I answered it. One question left.”

His teeth flashed in a mockery of a grin; it was a cold contrast to the warmth of his laughter just moments ago, the heat of his fingers blazing trails along your flesh… You could feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise… _Maybe I shouldn’t ‘poke the bear’ until I’ve gotten free…_

“Heh, clever.” He drawled. “Alright, you’ve caught me there. _One question._ ” His cruel grin didn’t change. “Why should I let you live?”

The question froze you. He couldn’t really mean he would… he would _kill_ you? Before you opened your mouth, he held up a hand and added more.

“Ah, ah, careful. You only get _one_ answer. Make it good.”

“I gave you _two_ questions. Why do I only get _one_ answer?”

“You said it yourself; I already asked one question, and you gave _one_ answer. So you have _one answer_ left.”

 _Stupid freakin’ smirking hot smother-me-now with those wicked eyes bastard_ , you grit your teeth. The indignation rushed up through you, transforming the cold pit in your stomach into a hazy red fog around your brain. You grit your teeth some more and pushed the fog back to think, but you let the indignation smolder. It was better to be pissed off than afraid. Fear froze you. Anger fueled you.

You thought about your answer for a minute, eying the smug bastard, and then it clicked. The perfect answer.

“I’m a vampire.”

He raised his eyebrow expectantly. When you said nothing else, he prompted you with, “… _and?_ ”

“That’s it. I’m a vampire.”

His smug smirk tapered at the edges into a sympathetic expression.

“I know it must be difficult to think with your life on the line, so I’ll give you another minute to come up with an answer.”

“That is my answer: I. Am. A. Vampire. What, do you want me to spell it out for you? You’re the one that kidnapped me, that tied me up to this couch with this stupid ankle-cuff, that’s asking me for a reason, that obviously has _so many_ questions for me. You already know I’m a vampire. If you wanted me dead, you would’ve done it already, you wouldn’t have wasted your blood on me. But no, you kept me alive, and you did it for a reason and that reason is because _I am a vampire._ ”

His smug expression didn’t shift, even as he slow-clapped at your answer. Each smack of his hands grated against your eardrums. How could this bastard still be so confident?

“Very good. And here I was beginning to think that you might be dimwitted and slow. I’m glad to see you’ve proven me wrong there. This wouldn’t be much fun if you didn’t have at least _half_ a brain. Since you did so well, I’ll let you ask me a question, any question, in turn.”

The question you should ask was quite obvious: _what did he want with you?_ And although the question burned and itched to come out, you pushed it down. You may not have known what you were getting into or who this guy really was, but it was obvious this was all a game to him. It was just like with any of the vampire hunters. A game of cat and mouse.

You refused to be the mouse.

“No thanks.”

You turned from him, turned from his ridiculously smug expression, curled into a little ball at the edge of the couch, and promptly went to sleep.

He harrumphed indifferently, “Have it your way.”


	8. (M) Chapter 5: The Elevenses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you lose track of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male-reader perspective.

Two weeks. You’d been stuck in this dreadful place, chained to this stiff and immaculate couch for _two whole weeks_.

You were growing restless and antsy with deprivation.

You refused to complain. Since that very first night, you had not said one word, not so much as a _sound_ to the human. You’d also reverted to mentally calling him _human_ and _mortal_ as a means of alleviating your annoyance with his insistence on calling you _pet_.

The only good thing in all of this was that, despite however much you refused to play along or answer his questions, he made sure you were fed the bare minimum you needed to remain alive and, well, not annoy the crap out of him with being hungry.

The unfortunate thing was that it was all _terrible tasting blood_. The kind of food that you avoided as much as humans avoided the plague or cleaning the weird cat-poop-collecting-boxes. You didn’t know where the blood came from but assumed it was all donated to hospitals, as it always arrived inside a carefully sealed plastic bag. The mortal would _oh so kindly_ pour said plastic bag of blood into a glass so you could drink like a human.

 _Like a human!_ You huffed. You were anything _but_ human and acting like you were still one grated on your nerves.

He didn’t do much of anything either.

When he wasn’t needling you with questions, he sat in front of the computer and typed away, occasionally grinning or cackling or making strange comments to you about pawns (which made you think he was playing chess somehow on the computer, but how was that better than playing with the physical board laid out on the coffee table?!).

Or he was on the phone, nattering away to some unseen person, clearly bothering them as much as he did you by the tone of their voice.

He was doing that right now, needling someone on the phone while he strolled about the living room.

Watching him waltz around made your legs tingle and ache with the desire to stretch them already. The ankle-cuff only gave you enough slack to move around the couch and stand directly in front of it, and so far, you’d only gotten to stretch your legs when you needed to use the restroom. You almost growled in annoyance. _Almost._

“Now, now, here I was generous enough to provide you with that information, and there you are threatening me? That’s not really nice. It’s almost like you don’t want my help. If that’s the cause, I don’t see the point in wasting my time any further—”

From your spot on the couch, you could hear, clear as if you were on the phone yourself, the other man begging for him to not hang up, to please help him, _please_.

“Heh. You know, if I was one to hold grudges, I might just say ‘no.’ But fortunately for you, I love humans. I love helping humans. So I’ll tell you a bit more.”

This was boring. You zoned out, staring at the bookshelf and counting how many books had a title that started with “A”. You’d been doing this for the past week, counting the number of books up there. Occasionally, the human offered to give you one of the books to read. You said nothing each time, which seemed to amuse him, and he’d say, “Very well then,” each time and not provide a book.

“I’d say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, but it’s actually been rather boring and predictable. Try not to die too soon.”

When he hung up the phone, he turned to stare at you. You didn’t know this because you were looking at him: you knew it because you could feel his eyes drilling little holes into the back of your neck.

He sighed loudly. “It’s rather inconvenient that you’ve made my couch your home. I’d usually host important meetings there, you know, but now I keep having to arrange them elsewhere.”

He paused, presumably so you could reply with something, but you didn’t. You switched from counting the books on the bookshelf to counting the cracks in the ceiling. There weren’t any.

“I can’t exactly leave you here alone either. With how frequently you need blood, you might just die if I got caught up in something time-consuming. What I mean to say with all this is that I’ll be having some friends over shortly. Think you can behave for an hour or two?”

For the first time in two weeks, you intentionally looked at him. Your brain felt fuzzy. What was he trying to say? Was he going to let you go now? But why?

He hummed sympathetically.

“Poor thing. It’s hardly been two weeks and already your brain is fried? I wonder how you used to survive all on your own out there. I mean, it wasn’t that hard to catch you after all… maybe you _wanted_ to be caught. Are you so lonely being the only vampire—”

“I’m not the only one.”

You hadn’t meant to say that. You hadn’t meant to say anything. It was against the vampiric code to even admit others existed. You looked away, back towards the bookshelf. Maybe he hadn’t noticed over his endless nattering?

“… interesting. Well, either way, you’re clearly alone. No one has come to find you or asked for you, so it must be that you’re so lonely you let yourself be captured. But let’s get back to the topic at hand, shall we? Do you think you can behave yourself for an hour or two while I have guests over? If you can, I might just let you walk around the apartment freely.”

Man, he talked a lot.

“You talk a lot.”

“And you appear mute. Are you deaf and dumb too?”

Again, you said nothing. He sighed, loudly.

“This isn’t any fun. Here I thought a vampire might be more interesting than even a human, but you’re just more boring. I guess that’s why I love humans so much. They’re complex, interesting—”

“Predictable.”

“Heh, that too. But that’s part of what makes them so interesting—”

“If I’m so boring, maybe you should just let me go.”

He grinned. “Maybe I should.”

“But you won’t,” you deadpanned.

He stretched his arms languidly, releasing a loud and relaxed sigh. He was mocking your inability to move around right now, you just _knew it_.

“Saying something like that so openly… Are you coming to terms with your situation? That is _one_ interesting thing about you: you appear to have either accepted this situation a lot more easily than a human would or you’re denying it so thoroughly that you’ve refused to acknowledge it by not saying a word until now. Tell me, which is it?”

“You’re the information broker. You tell me.”

You’d gone back to counting the books on the bookshelf, so you missed how he grinned widely, akin to a small child finally getting a cat to stop scratching them every time they tried to hug it and instead allowing the hug to happen. You would probably have grumbled at being compared to a cat anyways; you were anything _but_ a cat. You were a _vampire_ for crying out loud!

So enraptured were you in counting books that you missed how he strolled across the room, behind the couch, behind _you_ , until he leaned down and whispered in your ear.

“It’s not very nice to ignore your host like that.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up reflexively at the proximity, at the way his breath ghosted against your skin, at the heavenly scent of spiced peppermint and chocolate that wrapped around you. The heady aroma clouded your brain, left you in a pool of sweet-tasting blood, whatever train of thought you’d had last obscured by the beating heart just inches behind you.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

He wrapped his hand underneath your chin, and you let him, the scent just so _tantalizing_ , let him tilt your head back so he could crush you with another kiss, your teeth nipping immediately at his tongue, and he _let you_ , let the liquorish spread through your mouth, the slick underside of his candy-coated tongue rubbing against your own, smearing the vibrant flavors in every little crevice that he could reach.

When he pulled away, you darted out a hand, jerking him back by his hair so you could lick and nibble at the edges of his lips until he parted them, letting you steal another taste. He tasted better than he did moments before, hints of a bitter undertone emphasizing the sweetness of his blood.

You purred contentedly and loosened your grip, letting him pull away slowly.

He chuckled.

“Somebody’s happy. Does this mean you’ll behave?” He teased, his tongue darting out to lick at your bottom lip.

A pleasant, slightly buzzing, haze clouded your judgment, made you wondered _why in the world wouldn’t I behave in the first place?_ Made you nod your head agreeably, a lazy grin showing off your fangs, while you took one deep sniff after another of the intoxicating scent just inches away.

“Heh.” He hummed.

If you weren’t so hazy, you would’ve seen his relaxed, borderline adoring, grin directed at you, would’ve noticed how he shook his head good-humoredly before meandering off.

He came back with a simple black collar and a set of keys. The collar, he put on you; the keys, he used to unlock the ankle-cuff.

You sat there unblinkingly for several minutes, just staring at your ankle and wondering why it felt so utterly barren all of the sudden.

When it finally clicked, you froze in place—your muscles tensed—and debated the likelihood of reaching the door before he threw something made out of silver at you.

“Before you go running off...” He drawled, pulling out his phone and flipping it open in an unhurried fashion. He clicked a few buttons and showed you a screen. You didn’t understand whatever the screen was showing you—it just looked like a bunch of useless glowing shapes—and so waited for him to elaborate.

He sighed.

He clicked something and then your neck was _on fire_.

You dropped down, rolling off the couch, smacking into the floor, hitting the coffee table leg, _clawing_ _so hard_ at the flames in your neck. It wouldn’t come off!

It stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving you panting pathetically into the carpet, bloody tears at the corners of your eyes.

“It’s laced with silver. I have to input a command every hour to disarm it. Otherwise, that little necklace of yours will insert silver spikes in your throat. Fun, right?”

You growled. You refused to say anything to the stupid _bastard_. Necklace? _Necklace?!_ It was anything _but_ a necklace! Your claws dug into the carpet; you imagined the wool underneath you was really his skin, imagined peeling it apart bit by bit by delightful little _bit_.

“The ground rules are all the same as before. Don’t leave the apartment. Don’t break anything. Oh, and try not to eat my _guests_ , hm?”

You huffed into the carpet.

“What was that?”

Pain burst throughout your neck, sharp burning pinpricks akin to fire ants eating you alive—“Fine!” you yelped—and the pain stopped.

“Good.” He left you where you were, and where you remained, stubbornly, for who knows how long. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been hours; it was all the same to you.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in~!” Izaya sang cheerily, twirling in his chair.

In a split second, you heavily considered frightening the people by pretending to be possessed and hanging upside-down from the ceiling, hypnotizing them so you could escape, doing nothing, or hiding.

You decided to hide.

Two seconds later, you decided you were bored with hiding and, just as the first “guest” took their third step into the room, in the middle of a sentence, you popped up in front of them, leaned into their face, and said;

“Boo.”

The guy screamed, threw himself backwards, fell through the open door and onto another female, who appeared completely and utterly _bored_ by his girlish screaming, and pissed himself.

You could smell the piss.

Izaya sighed loudly from behind his desk. You stood beside him in the next instant, holding his wrist against the desktop and glaring at him to keep him from doing whatever voodoo he did on the phone to make your neck hurt. You could see him thinking, considering admonishing you or letting it go.

He decided to let it go.

“Ran, when you’re done screaming like a little girl, go clean yourself up. And don’t sit on my couch. I’m not having you ruin another piece of perfectly good furniture.” Izaya rotated his wrist easily out of your hold, stretching his arms and rising to stroll around the room.

You claimed his vacated seat, twirling around in it several times and letting your head hang awkwardly off the side.

 _No wonder he does this all the time, it’s weirdly enjoyable_ , you thought, spinning yourself around some more.

Each time your eyes passed the living room, you noted whatever additional person had walked in. When Izaya said he was having guest _s_ over, he wasn’t kidding about there being _multiple_ guests.

 _Is he having a party?_ You wondered. It didn’t look like it. There wasn’t any food or alcohol or sacrificial animals.

There were six of them in total, one of which was familiar as the woman that had been there the very first night you awoke in this apartment. But hadn’t she declared that she would be working from home the rest of the time that you were here?

She stiffened when she saw you.

“Izaya, that thing—”

“Has a name, Namie, just like you. It’s not very nice to refer to others as _things_ and _objects_. Although, I’ve heard people do that to distance themselves so it’s easier to kill another person.”

Namie huffed angrily, “I’m not thinking of _killing_ him—”

“Really? That’s not very smart. I’m sure he’s already thought of plenty of ways to kill you. Isn’t that right, _pet_?”

You snorted, still wheeling around, and said nothing.

After a few more grips and complaints, all of which Izaya waved away like fruit flies, the so-called “guests” seemed satiated that you were no threat and promptly ignored you for the rest of the evening. You returned the favor, finding them all boring and stinking worse than a pile of garbage left out in the sun.

~

After that incident, Izaya deemed you “house-trained” and it sufficiently “risk-free” to permit you to meander the apartment at all odd hours of the day. Since he compared you to a cat, not just once, but _three separate times_ , you decided to torment him for three days in much the same manner that cats did.

After having fully familiarized yourself with the entirety of the apartment.

And the odd arrangement of books on the bookshelf.

In the middle of the first night, you ran around the house at a moderate speed—just fast enough that Izaya bolted up in bed and screamed “Gazelle!” before he was even fully awake, but just slow enough that Izaya could _see_ you go from his chair, to the couch, up the flight of stairs to the couches on the upper level, and then back down to the couches on the lower level in the span of a minute.

“What are you doing?” His voice cracked, heavy from sleep. You grinned at him and stretched yourself, not saying a word. “Fine.” He huffed, turned on his heel, and went back to bed. You continued this an hour later, and then two hours later. By the time morning came around, Izaya stumbled out of his room like a walking corpse, bags under his eyes.

The second night, you yowled like a cat. You couldn’t help it. You were very good at mimicking the sounds of other animals, being a vampire and so old, and having had a bunch of free time to learn how to make strange sounds and all. All those years with your maker telling you to amuse yourself without haunting the village came in handy now, you found, as all the tricks you’d pulled to vex your maker were easily replicated and used on the human.

Said human stumbled out of the room on the second night, took one look at you, grit his teeth, went back into his room, slammed the door, and turned the television on as loud as he could. You yowled outside his door for a good while to ensure he slept with the television on loudly. When he “awoke” (he never really fell asleep in the first place) in the morning, he was tone-deaf for several hours. You pitied him, but not enough to feel guilty about your successful vengeance.

On the third night, you pulled the last trick in the book: you clawed at his bedroom door. It was hard to do this without actually _damaging_ the door, but you were determined, patient, and had no real need for sleeping at night. He caved in ten minutes, yanking the door open, glaring down at you, and snapping, “What?!” You grinned up at him, curled your hand as though it were a paw, and meowed.

The look he gave you… if human eyes could kill, or that “evil eye” was real, then you’d be dead, cursed, and dead some more. He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and breathed loudly.

“Alright. I understand.” He sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and shrugging helplessly. “Please forgive me for having compared you to a cat…” He grinned, suddenly, that smug and all-knowing expression of his that promised equal amounts annoyance and aggravation, and squatted so he was eye level with you. “Now stop acting like a cat or I really will treat you like one and get a litter box, understood?”

You gave him an unamused expression, about to hiss at him like a cat. You thought better of it and decided to grace the foul mortal with some words for once.

“Say ‘cat’ again and you might just find that the ‘cat has gotten your tongue.’”

“Ooh~ childish threats, how frightful. Did it take you a hundred years to come up with that one?”

Your skin prickled at his words, your nails itching to dig into his flesh. But one of your maker’s favorite phrases came back to you then; _Don’t make unnecessary enemies_.

So instead of saying something biting back, you stated, “Maybe.” in a simple and off-handed manner.

Izaya laughed, as you knew he would, his eyes crinkling with mirth. He covered his mouth with a hand and ducked his head down, muffling the sound, then sighed, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Alright. We’ll have ourselves a little truce.” He decided, flashing you a tired smile. He got to his feet, stretched, and went back to bed, leaving the bedroom door open. You debated exploring the room, but decided against it. His scent permeated every corner; you didn’t particularly feel like testing your self-restraint.

So you left him to sleep and amused yourself with a book.

~

A few days had passed since the cat war, and now you found yourself in some kind of grudgingly agreed upon truce. This just meant that out of every ten questions he asked you, you would answer one.

He’d also gone back to feeding you himself, instead of forcing you to eat the garbage hospital blood. Occasionally, you would refuse his blood—fearing you’d had too much of it already—and supplement with the trash blood. _Occasionally._

Just as infrequently, if he asked a particularly interesting question, you would do more than just answer it: you would speak for a bit.

It was sometime in the afternoon with the sun high in the sky—and you only knew this because Izaya kept pulling the damn drapes aside to peer outside at the mortals scurrying across the street (and you kept darting into the furthest corner you could to escape the scattering light beams).

“What do you do,” Izaya mused, “with all those years?” The question was so quiet that a mortal would’ve missed it. You heard it loud and clear.

You actually liked it when he spoke in this quiet, contemplative half-whisper. As though the words he was sharing were so secretive, so dear and near to his heart, that they ought not be spoken too loudly. When he spoke in this way, a part of you felt as though he was sharing the secret _with you_ , and not just muttering his thoughts out loud.

It was a sentimental feeling. One that would likely get you killed, as your maker would say.

“You count books.” You answered, doing just that.

Without looking at him, you sensed his half-smile. He huffed a chuckle, short, brief, as quiet as a mouse. It was the half-smile he wore and the sudden sound he made when something amusing surprised him into grinning. You liked to startle him into grinning. It was like you tricked him into being genuinely happy for a moment. You squashed the foolish sentiment and counted all the books that had an author beginning with “O.”

“Do you know how to play chess?”

The question startled you into missing a book. Tearing your gaze away from the shelf, you considered first Izaya and then the chessboard littered with pieces from every board game on the planet.

“Not this kind of chess.”

“No, not that kind of chess.” He waltzed over as he spoke. “Regular chess, with kings, queens, knights, and pawns.” He settled onto the couch opposite you and cleared the chessboard of unneeded pieces.

“That chess is boring.” You mumbled, a part of you disappointed to see the board cleaned. You liked watching the pieces move around slowly each day. You were getting used to how they moved, and had begun to assign each piece a little story.

Izaya stopped removing the random pieces.

“Boring? So you don’t like chess?”

“It’s not that I don’t like chess. It’s that the other game looks more interesting.”

He hummed. “Well then, why don’t we play the other game?”

“What are the rules?”

He sighed, leaning back in the couch. He crossed his leg, hooking his ankle over his other knee.

“There aren’t any rules, really. The only rule is to try not to get everyone killed.” He leaned forward suddenly, picking up a black knight. “And to wake up this piece. That’s the end goal.”

“What wakes up that piece?”

“War.”

“Not death?”

“Hm?”

“In war, there’s death. Without death, war is just conflict. People struggling against one another to get what they want, to survive. If the horse is asleep, then it doesn’t make much sense for the horse to wake up when the people around it are busy living their normal lives, trying to get what they want. It makes more sense for the horse to wake up when someone dies, or when something else comes up that means it’s time for the horse to do its job.”

“Do its job?”

“Yes. That’s why the horse is asleep, isn’t it? There’s nothing for it do to. It doesn’t have a job. Unless the horse’s job is to carry people into battle.”

Izaya laughed. “No, its job isn’t to carry people into battle. Rather, its responsibility is to carry people _away_ from battle.”

You shrugged. “Then I guess it needs war to run from.”

Izaya hummed. You let him think, going back to counting the books on the bookshelves.

“Well, I’m interested to see how you would do with something simple and boring, so let’s just play chess for now, alright?”

You made a noise, a cross between a grunt and a sound of agreement. Izaya finished removing the odd pieces and setting up the chessboard.

He lost in ten minutes.

Once more, you let him think, sitting there, blinking blindly at the chessboard, while you counted the books.

“I saw all your moves coming.”

You hummed.

“I knew what moves you were going to make.” Izaya elaborated. “I knew the strategy you were using.”

“Are you trying to say that you let me win?”

Izaya stared at you. You stared at the books.

“No. I didn’t.”

He made you play again. He lost in five minutes. He stared at the board, his elbows on his knees, his mouth in his hands, practically glaring death threats at the board really.

“Again.” He ordered. So you played again.

He lost in three minutes.

He got up and walked away.

You counted the books on the bookshelves.

He came back with a timer.

“Again.”

“No.”

“Why not? Afraid you’ll lose—”

“I’m not interested in your existential crisis.”

He balked. “What?”

“You’ve got 107 books total. Only eight of them have a title that begins with ‘A’ and two of them have a title that begins with ‘The.’ Twenty of them look fake.”

Izaya said nothing. When you looked at him, you found his left eyebrow raised in a plain, unassuming expression.

“Were you autistic as a human?”

“What?” You asked, confused.

“Autistic? Do you know what that means? Going by your confusion, I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ Maybe you were born in the medieval era then, or some other period where autism was misdiagnosed as insanity. Were you ostracized from your hometown? Never mind. Put simply, autism is a mental disorder. Although it can vary in specific conditions from one human to the next, people that are autistic usually have issues forming relationships, interacting with other humans, communicating, and using language. They tend to display repetitive behaviors and perform specific routines or rituals to minimize their stress—like you with your book counting—and avoid eye contact. Being autistic could explain why you’re able to beat me at chess with such blatantly obvious moves, but simply having a high IQ would work too. It would just be far less interesting.”

“I’m not autistic.”

“Hmph.” Izaya seemed disappointed. Well, so were you. He had 107 books! That was an odd-freaking number! And most of them were _fake_!

There was even a head behind the fake ones!

“You should buy thirteen more books. Real books.”

“Why? So I’ll have 120 books on the bookshelf? Do you not like odd numbers?”

“So you’ll have 100 _real_ books.”

“Hm. Maybe I should buy fourteen more books so I have one hundred and _one_ real books. Then it’ll be like having one hundred and one Dalmatians.”

You frowned at him. “What would you do with all those dogs?”

“Make a fur coat.” He grinned.

You didn’t get it. His grin grew. He patted the space beside him on the couch, beckoning you to join him.

“Come. We’ll watch _101 Dalmatians._ Then you’ll understand.”

~

It took thirty minutes for Izaya to convince you that the television wasn’t trying to kill you, honestly, those were just fake bullet sounds coming from it and even if they were real bullets they were made of led and not wood or silver and so you wouldn’t die, so please come out from under the bed already, and how did you even fit under there in the first place? It’s not like there’s much room between the floor and the bed.

You didn’t finish watching the movie anyways. Once he’d persuaded you to cuddle, you’d somehow wound up having sex again and then you’d promptly fallen asleep.

~

“Do you need to sleep?” Izaya asked as soon as you woke up. You didn’t know what day it was. Or what time. You rubbed your eyes and glared at the clock, which seemed to say that it had either been three hours or fifteen hours since you’d fallen asleep.

“No.”

“Then why do you fall asleep?”

“I don’t have enough blood in me. My body is trying to preserve energy.”

Moments later, a barren wrist was presented to you.

“Drink.” Izaya ordered when you glanced up at him.

You were too tired to argue, and too hungry, so you did just that.

Two hours later, you had sex again, so the meal became moot.

~

Izaya had convinced the woman, Namie, to return. You use the word ‘convinced’ here loosely, finding the word ‘coerced’ more applicable to the situation. At least, going by Namie’s attitude towards being back in the apartment with you still in it as well.

She arrived wearing black goggles (presumably to keep from being hypnotized), covered head-to-toe in a silver mesh outfit complete with gloves and a turtleneck, and brought a wooden stake.

Izaya made her throw out the stake. He laughed at her outfit, though, and let her wear it inside.

“I’m going out to take care of some business now. Namie will look after you while I’m away.” Izaya announced. He flashed his phone at you. “Remember to behave. If you get hungry, there’s some food in the fridge. I know it’s not quite to your _tastes_ but if you drink from Namie, then I won’t feed you myself. Understand?”

You grumbled inaudibly from the couch. It had become your favorite spot in the apartment, aside from Izaya’s chair.

“Good.”

He left.

~

It seemed Namie was more interested in you than she originally let on.

“How long have you been alive?” She asked.

She’d been doing this for the past fifteen minutes already (you counted, your eyes fixed firmly on the round clock above the bookshelf), rotating between a set of questions she’d appeared to have memorized.

After her first question, she had waited a solid two minutes, prompted you with the question again, and after another thirty seconds, asked a different question. Now she asked the same set of questions over and over again, asking one every fifteen seconds. Just long enough that the wait between questions annoyed you more than the questions being asked at all.

“Where were you born?”

Fifteen. Ten. Five. Four. Three. Two. One…

“Can you only drink blood, or can you eat other things too?”

Fifteen. Ten. Five. One.

“Does sunlight turn you to stone?”

The questions were so _boring_. Ugh. The least she could do was come up with something original. Even Izaya’s questions were more interesting (given, he seemed to actually have half a brain and put more effort into engaging you).

He’d ask things from “Does all blood taste the same, or is it different from person to person? Do moods affect the taste? Health?” to “I imagine that if I had to be born in any other era, I would pick the Shota era. What era have you least enjoyed living through?” to even “Do you get depressed from the lack of moonlight? Since you can’t go out in the sun, and lack of sunlight causes depression—among other ailments—in humans, I can only guess that the same happens to you. Then again, you’re a vampire and not a human. The anatomy could be vastly different… Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone dissect you.”

If you were honest with yourself, that last statement of his had… _surprised_ you, impressed you even, and definitely pleased you. You could almost trust the human.

If you forgot about the whole kidnapping and imprisonment bit, that is.

Namie sighed loudly and obnoxiously.

“Really, I don’t get what Izaya sees in you. You just lay there on the couch all day, every day, saying nothing, _doing_ nothing. You’re so—boring! Ugh. If _I_ were a vampire, I would do things. Be somebody! I would… I would prove to my brother, once and for all, how worthless that little bitch is!” She laughed, and before you knew it, she was on some kind of rant about being obsessed with her brother blah, blah, blah…

You tuned her out.

What were you thinking about last? Oh, right. Izaya.

Now _that_ was an interesting human.

~

The elevator was coming back.

Okay, yes, a part of you had perked up each time you heard the elevator returning (and you could hear it, perfectly, being a vampire with excellent hearing) but this time was different! You heard Izaya _humming_.

It was a distinctive tune that ended with “tuna” every few seconds.

You don’t know why he was so obsessed with tuna. It was just dead fish. It didn’t even have any blood in it.

Of course Namie had to ruin your jolly mood right then and there by opening her mouth.

“I wonder what the vampire hunters would do if they knew Izaya had tricked them.”

You froze.

Namie didn’t notice. She was human, after all, she didn’t notice anything.

 _Izaya would have noticed_ , a small voice in your head whispered. You shushed it. You were listening to Namie right now.

“Izaya knew you existed, you know, even before you bit him that first time. And even though you’d bitten him, he wasn’t going to bother with you. It wasn’t until the vampire hunters dropped by and asked if he knew anything about you, or would help them catch you, that he decided to interfere. I don’t know _why_ , though. You did _bite_ him. And it’s not like you’re useful. You just _sit_ there.” Namie huffed. “So boring…”

The door opened then (slammed, really), and Izaya waltzed in with a cheerfully sung, “I’m home~! With fatty tuna~!”

He twirled over to the couch, plopping down right next to where your head rested, and set the bag of dead fish on the table. Peering up, you found him smiling broadly down at you.

“Missed me~?”

“Extremely,” you said without missing a beat.

His face—twitched, is the best word you can describe the action. Eyebrows up, eyes wide, face switching abruptly back to neutral, mouth turned up at the side, a scrunch in the forehead as he thought, and, all the while, his smile lingered. He hummed, at long last, and you knew by the tone that he was confused. He wasn’t sure if you were being factitious or honest.

Well, given how irksomely boring Namie was, you were being honest. But you wouldn’t let him know that. You turned your head away, tucking it back in your previous position, closed your eyes, and presumed sleep once more.

A heartbeat later (you heard his heart beating, loudly, just inches away), he laid a hand in your hair and proceeded to massage your head. You almost started purring.

 _Almost_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elevenses: “a short break for light refreshments, usually with tea or coffee, taken about eleven o'clock in the morning.”


	9. (F) Chapter 5: The Elevenses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you lose track of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female-reader perspective.

Two weeks. You’d been stuck in this dreadful place, chained to this stiff and immaculate couch for _two whole weeks_.

You were growing restless and antsy with deprivation.

You refused to complain. Since that very first night, you had not said one word, not so much as a _sound_ to the human. You’d also reverted to mentally calling him _human_ and _mortal_ as a means of alleviating your annoyance with his insistence on calling you _pet_.

The only good thing in all of this was that, despite however much you refused to play along or answer his questions, he made sure you were fed the bare minimum you needed to remain alive and, well, not annoy the crap out of him with being hungry.

The unfortunate thing was that it was all _terrible tasting blood_. The kind of food that you avoided as much as humans avoided the plague or cleaning the weird cat-poop-collecting-boxes. You didn’t know where the blood came from but assumed it was all donated to hospitals, as it always arrived inside a carefully sealed plastic bag. The mortal would _oh so kindly_ pour said plastic bag of blood into a glass so you could drink like a human.

 _Like a human!_ You huffed. You were anything _but_ human and acting like you were still one grated on your nerves.

He didn’t do much of anything either.

When he wasn’t needling you with questions, he sat in front of the computer and typed away, occasionally grinning or cackling or making strange comments to you about pawns (which made you think he was playing chess somehow on the computer, but how was that better than playing with the physical board laid out on the coffee table?!).

Or he was on the phone, nattering away to some unseen person, clearly bothering them as much as he did you by the tone of their voice.

He was doing that right now, needling someone on the phone while he strolled about the living room.

Watching him waltz around made your legs tingle and ache with the desire to stretch them already. The ankle-cuff only gave you enough slack to move around the couch and stand directly in front of it, and so far, you’d only gotten to stretch your legs when you needed to use the restroom. You almost growled in annoyance. _Almost._

“Now, now, here I was generous enough to provide you with that information, and there you are threatening me? That’s not really nice. It’s almost like you don’t want my help. If that’s the cause, I don’t see the point in wasting my time any further—”

From your spot on the couch, you could hear, clear as if you were on the phone yourself, the other man begging for him to not hang up, to please help him, _please_.

“Heh. You know, if I was one to hold grudges, I might just say ‘no.’ But fortunately for you, I love humans. I love helping humans. So I’ll tell you a bit more.”

This was boring. You zoned out, staring at the bookshelf and counting how many books had a title that started with “A”. You’d been doing this for the past week, counting the number of books up there. Occasionally, the human offered to give you one of the books to read. You said nothing each time, which seemed to amuse him, and he’d say, “Very well then,” each time and not provide a book.

“I’d say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, but it’s actually been rather boring and predictable. Try not to die too soon.”

When he hung up the phone, he turned to stare at you. You didn’t know this because you were looking at him: you knew it because you could feel his eyes drilling little holes into the back of your neck.

He sighed loudly. “It’s rather inconvenient that you’ve made my couch your home. I’d usually host important meetings there, you know, but now I keep having to arrange them elsewhere.”

He paused, presumably so you could reply with something, but you didn’t. You switched from counting the books on the bookshelf to counting the cracks in the ceiling. There weren’t any.

“I can’t exactly leave you here alone either. With how frequently you need blood, you might just die if I got caught up in something time-consuming. What I mean to say with all this is that I’ll be having some friends over shortly. Think you can behave for an hour or two?”

For the first time in two weeks, you intentionally looked at him. Your brain felt fuzzy. What was he trying to say? Was he going to let you go now? But why?

He hummed sympathetically.

“Poor thing. It’s hardly been two weeks and already your brain is fried? I wonder how you used to survive all on your own out there. I mean, it wasn’t that hard to catch you after all… maybe you _wanted_ to be caught. Are you so lonely being the only vampire—”

“I’m not the only one.”

You hadn’t meant to say that. You hadn’t meant to say anything. It was against the vampiric code to even admit others existed. You looked away, back towards the bookshelf. Maybe he hadn’t noticed over his endless nattering?

“… interesting. Well, either way, you’re clearly alone. No one has come to find you or asked for you, so it must be that you’re so lonely you let yourself be captured. But let’s get back to the topic at hand, shall we? Do you think you can behave yourself for an hour or two while I have guests over? If you can, I might just let you walk around the apartment freely.”

Man, he talked a lot.

“You talk a lot.”

“And you appear mute. Are you deaf and dumb too?”

Again, you said nothing. He sighed, loudly.

“This isn’t any fun. Here I thought a vampire might be more interesting than even a human, but you’re just more boring. I guess that’s why I love humans so much. They’re complex, interesting—”

“Predictable.”

“Heh, that too. But that’s part of what makes them so interesting—”

“If I’m so boring, maybe you should just let me go.”

He grinned. “Maybe I should.”

“But you won’t,” you deadpanned.

He stretched his arms languidly, releasing a loud and relaxed sigh. He was mocking your inability to move around right now, you just _knew it_.

“Saying something like that so openly… Are you coming to terms with your situation? That is _one_ interesting thing about you: you appear to have either accepted this situation a lot more easily than a human would or you’re denying it so thoroughly that you’ve refused to acknowledge it by not saying a word until now. Tell me, which is it?”

“You’re the information broker. You tell me.”

You’d gone back to counting the books on the bookshelf, so you missed how he grinned widely, akin to a small child finally getting a cat to stop scratching them every time they tried to hug it and instead allowing the hug to happen. You would probably have grumbled at being compared to a cat anyways; you were anything _but_ a cat. You were a _vampire_ for crying out loud!

So enraptured were you in counting books that you missed how he strolled across the room, behind the couch, behind _you_ , until he leaned down and whispered in your ear.

“It’s not very nice to ignore your host like that.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up reflexively at the proximity, at the way his breath ghosted against your skin, at the heavenly scent of spiced peppermint and chocolate that wrapped around you. The heady aroma clouded your brain, left you in a pool of sweet-tasting blood, whatever train of thought you’d had last obscured by the beating heart just inches behind you.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

He wrapped his hand underneath your chin, and you let him, the scent just so _tantalizing_ , let him tilt your head back so he could crush you with another kiss, your teeth nipping immediately at his tongue, and he _let you_ , let the liquorish spread through your mouth, the slick underside of his candy-coated tongue rubbing against your own, smearing the vibrant flavors in every little crevice that he could reach.

When he pulled away, you darted out a hand, jerking him back by his hair so you could lick and nibble at the edges of his lips until he parted them, letting you steal another taste. He tasted better than he did moments before, hints of a bitter undertone emphasizing the sweetness of his blood.

You purred contentedly and loosened your grip, letting him pull away slowly.

He chuckled.

“Somebody’s happy. Does this mean you’ll behave?” He teased, his tongue darting out to lick at your bottom lip.

A pleasant, slightly buzzing, haze clouded your judgment, made you wondered _why in the world wouldn’t I behave in the first place?_ Made you nod your head agreeably, a lazy grin showing off your fangs, while you took one deep sniff after another of the intoxicating scent just inches away.

“Heh.” He hummed.

If you weren’t so hazy, you would’ve seen his relaxed, borderline adoring, grin directed at you, would’ve noticed how he shook his head good-humoredly before meandering off.

He came back with a simple black collar and a set of keys. The collar, he put on you; the keys, he used to unlock the ankle-cuff.

You sat there unblinkingly for several minutes, just staring at your ankle and wondering why it felt so utterly barren all of the sudden.

When it finally clicked, you froze in place—your muscles tensed—and debated the likelihood of reaching the door before he threw something made out of silver at you.

“Before you go running off...” He drawled, pulling out his phone and flipping it open in an unhurried fashion. He clicked a few buttons and showed you a screen. You didn’t understand whatever the screen was showing you—it just looked like a bunch of useless glowing shapes—and so waited for him to elaborate.

He sighed.

He clicked something and then your neck was _on fire_.

You dropped down, rolling off the couch, smacking into the floor, hitting the coffee table leg, _clawing_ _so hard_ at the flames in your neck. It wouldn’t come off!

It stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving you panting pathetically into the carpet, bloody tears at the corners of your eyes.

“It’s laced with silver. I have to input a command every hour to disarm it. Otherwise, that little necklace of yours will insert silver spikes in your throat. Fun, right?”

You growled. You refused to say anything to the stupid _bastard_. Necklace? _Necklace?!_ It was anything _but_ a necklace! Your claws dug into the carpet; you imagined the wool underneath you was really his skin, imagined peeling it apart bit by bit by delightful little _bit_.

“The ground rules are all the same as before. Don’t leave the apartment. Don’t break anything. Oh, and try not to eat my _guests_ , hm?”

You huffed into the carpet.

“What was that?”

Pain burst throughout your neck, sharp burning pinpricks akin to fire ants eating you alive—“Fine!” you yelped—and the pain stopped.

“Good.” He left you where you were, and where you remained, stubbornly, for who knows how long. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been hours; it was all the same to you.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in~!” Izaya sang cheerily, twirling in his chair.

In a split second, you heavily considered frightening the people by pretending to be possessed and hanging upside-down from the ceiling, hypnotizing them so you could escape, doing nothing, or hiding.

You decided to hide.

Two seconds later, you decided you were bored with hiding and, just as the first “guest” took their third step into the room, in the middle of a sentence, you popped up in front of them, leaned into their face, and said;

“Boo.”

The guy screamed, threw himself backwards, fell through the open door and onto another female, who appeared completely and utterly _bored_ by his girlish screaming, and pissed himself.

You could smell the piss.

Izaya sighed loudly from behind his desk. You stood beside him in the next instant, holding his wrist against the desktop and glaring at him to keep him from doing whatever voodoo he did on the phone to make your neck hurt. You could see him thinking, considering admonishing you or letting it go.

He decided to let it go.

“Ran, when you’re done screaming like a little girl, go clean yourself up. And don’t sit on my couch. I’m not having you ruin another piece of perfectly good furniture.” Izaya rotated his wrist easily out of your hold, stretching his arms and rising to stroll around the room.

You claimed his vacated seat, twirling around in it several times and letting your head hang awkwardly off the side.

 _No wonder he does this all the time, it’s weirdly enjoyable_ , you thought, spinning yourself around some more.

Each time your eyes passed the living room, you noted whatever additional person had walked in. When Izaya said he was having guest _s_ over, he wasn’t kidding about there being _multiple_ guests.

 _Is he having a party?_ You wondered. It didn’t look like it. There wasn’t any food or alcohol or sacrificial animals.

There were six of them in total, one of which was familiar as the woman that had been there the very first night you awoke in this apartment. But hadn’t she declared that she would be working from home the rest of the time that you were here?

She stiffened when she saw you.

“Izaya, that thing—”

“Has a name, Namie, just like you. It’s not very nice to refer to others as _things_ and _objects_. Although, I’ve heard people do that to distance themselves so it’s easier to kill another person.”

Namie huffed angrily, “I’m not thinking of _killing_ her—”

“Really? That’s not very smart. I’m sure she’s already thought of plenty of ways to kill you. Isn’t that right, _pet_?”

You snorted, still wheeling around, and said nothing.

After a few more grips and complaints, all of which Izaya waved away like fruit flies, the so-called “guests” seemed satiated that you were no threat and promptly ignored you for the rest of the evening. You returned the favor, finding them all boring and stinking worse than a pile of garbage left out in the sun.

~

After that incident, Izaya deemed you “house-trained” and it sufficiently “risk-free” to permit you to meander the apartment at all odd hours of the day. Since he compared you to a cat, not just once, but _three separate times_ , you decided to torment him for three days in much the same manner that cats did.

After having fully familiarized yourself with the entirety of the apartment.

And the odd arrangement of books on the bookshelf.

In the middle of the first night, you ran around the house at a moderate speed—just fast enough that Izaya bolted up in bed and screamed “Gazelle!” before he was even fully awake, but just slow enough that Izaya could _see_ you go from his chair, to the couch, up the flight of stairs to the couches on the upper level, and then back down to the couches on the lower level in the span of a minute.

“What are you doing?” His voice cracked, heavy from sleep. You grinned at him and stretched yourself, not saying a word. “Fine.” He huffed, turned on his heel, and went back to bed. You continued this an hour later, and then two hours later. By the time morning came around, Izaya stumbled out of his room like a walking corpse, bags under his eyes.

The second night, you yowled like a cat. You couldn’t help it. You were very good at mimicking the sounds of other animals, being a vampire and so old, and having had a bunch of free time to learn how to make strange sounds and all. All those years with your maker telling you to amuse yourself without haunting the village came in handy now, you found, as all the tricks you’d pulled to vex your maker were easily replicated and used on the human.

Said human stumbled out of the room on the second night, took one look at you, grit his teeth, went back into his room, slammed the door, and turned the television on as loud as he could. You yowled outside his door for a good while to ensure he slept with the television on loudly. When he “awoke” (he never really fell asleep in the first place) in the morning, he was tone-deaf for several hours. You pitied him, but not enough to feel guilty about your successful vengeance.

On the third night, you pulled the last trick in the book: you clawed at his bedroom door. It was hard to do this without actually _damaging_ the door, but you were determined, patient, and had no real need for sleeping at night. He caved in ten minutes, yanking the door open, glaring down at you, and snapping, “What?!” You grinned up at him, curled your hand as though it were a paw, and meowed.

The look he gave you… if human eyes could kill, or that “evil eye” was real, then you’d be dead, cursed, and dead some more. He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and breathed loudly.

“Alright. I understand.” He sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and shrugging helplessly. “Please forgive me for having compared you to a cat…” He grinned, suddenly, that smug and all-knowing expression of his that promised equal amounts annoyance and aggravation, and squatted so he was eye level with you. “Now stop acting like a cat or I really will treat you like one and get a litter box, understood?”

You gave him an unamused expression, about to hiss at him like a cat. You thought better of it and decided to grace the foul mortal with some words for once.

“Say ‘cat’ again and you might just find that the ‘cat has gotten your tongue.’”

“Ooh~ childish threats, how frightful. Did it take you a hundred years to come up with that one?”

Your skin prickled at his words, your nails itching to dig into his flesh. But one of your maker’s favorite phrases came back to you then; _Don’t make unnecessary enemies_.

So instead of saying something biting back, you stated, “Maybe.” in a simple and off-handed manner.

Izaya laughed, as you knew he would, his eyes crinkling with mirth. He covered his mouth with a hand and ducked his head down, muffling the sound, then sighed, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Alright. We’ll have ourselves a little truce.” He decided, flashing you a tired smile. He got to his feet, stretched, and went back to bed, leaving the bedroom door open. You debated exploring the room, but decided against it. His scent permeated every corner; you didn’t particularly feel like testing your self-restraint.

So you left him to sleep and amused yourself with a book.

~

A few days had passed since the cat war, and now you found yourself in some kind of grudgingly agreed upon truce. This just meant that out of every ten questions he asked you, you would answer one.

He’d also gone back to feeding you himself, instead of forcing you to eat the garbage hospital blood. Occasionally, you would refuse his blood—fearing you’d had too much of it already—and supplement with the trash blood. _Occasionally._

Just as infrequently, if he asked a particularly interesting question, you would do more than just answer it: you would speak for a bit.

It was sometime in the afternoon with the sun high in the sky—and you only knew this because Izaya kept pulling the damn drapes aside to peer outside at the mortals scurrying across the street (and you kept darting into the furthest corner you could to escape the scattering light beams).

“What do you do,” Izaya mused, “with all those years?” The question was so quiet that a mortal would’ve missed it. You heard it loud and clear.

You actually liked it when he spoke in this quiet, contemplative half-whisper. As though the words he was sharing were so secretive, so dear and near to his heart, that they ought not be spoken too loudly. When he spoke in this way, a part of you felt as though he was sharing the secret _with you_ , and not just muttering his thoughts out loud.

It was a sentimental feeling. One that would likely get you killed, as your maker would say.

“You count books.” You answered, doing just that.

Without looking at him, you sensed his half-smile. He huffed a chuckle, short, brief, as quiet as a mouse. It was the half-smile he wore and the sudden sound he made when something amusing surprised him into grinning. You liked to startle him into grinning. It was like you tricked him into being genuinely happy for a moment. You squashed the foolish sentiment and counted all the books that had an author beginning with “O.”

“Do you know how to play chess?”

The question startled you into missing a book. Tearing your gaze away from the shelf, you considered first Izaya and then the chessboard littered with pieces from every board game on the planet.

“Not this kind of chess.”

“No, not that kind of chess.” He waltzed over as he spoke. “Regular chess, with kings, queens, knights, and pawns.” He settled onto the couch opposite you and cleared the chessboard of unneeded pieces.

“That chess is boring.” You mumbled, a part of you disappointed to see the board cleaned. You liked watching the pieces move around slowly each day. You were getting used to how they moved, and had begun to assign each piece a little story.

Izaya stopped removing the random pieces.

“Boring? So you don’t like chess?”

“It’s not that I don’t like chess. It’s that the other game looks more interesting.”

He hummed. “Well then, why don’t we play the other game?”

“What are the rules?”

He sighed, leaning back in the couch. He crossed his leg, hooking his ankle over his other knee.

“There aren’t any rules, really. The only rule is to try not to get everyone killed.” He leaned forward suddenly, picking up a black knight. “And to wake up this piece. That’s the end goal.”

“What wakes up that piece?”

“War.”

“Not death?”

“Hm?”

“In war, there’s death. Without death, war is just conflict. People struggling against one another to get what they want, to survive. If the horse is asleep, then it doesn’t make much sense for the horse to wake up when the people around it are busy living their normal lives, trying to get what they want. It makes more sense for the horse to wake up when someone dies, or when something else comes up that means it’s time for the horse to do its job.”

“Do its job?”

“Yes. That’s why the horse is asleep, isn’t it? There’s nothing for it do to. It doesn’t have a job. Unless the horse’s job is to carry people into battle.”

Izaya laughed. “No, its job isn’t to carry people into battle. Rather, its responsibility is to carry people _away_ from battle.”

You shrugged. “Then I guess it needs war to run from.”

Izaya hummed. You let him think, going back to counting the books on the bookshelves.

“Well, I’m interested to see how you would do with something simple and boring, so let’s just play chess for now, alright?”

You made a noise, a cross between a grunt and a sound of agreement. Izaya finished removing the odd pieces and setting up the chessboard.

He lost in ten minutes.

Once more, you let him think, sitting there, blinking blindly at the chessboard, while you counted the books.

“I saw all your moves coming.”

You hummed.

“I knew what moves you were going to make.” Izaya elaborated. “I knew the strategy you were using.”

“Are you trying to say that you let me win?”

Izaya stared at you. You stared at the books.

“No. I didn’t.”

He made you play again. He lost in five minutes. He stared at the board, his elbows on his knees, his mouth in his hands, practically glaring death threats at the board really.

“Again.” He ordered. So you played again.

He lost in three minutes.

He got up and walked away.

You counted the books on the bookshelves.

He came back with a timer.

“Again.”

“No.”

“Why not? Afraid you’ll lose—”

“I’m not interested in your existential crisis.”

He balked. “What?”

“You’ve got 107 books total. Only eight of them have a title that begins with ‘A’ and two of them have a title that begins with ‘The.’ Twenty of them look fake.”

Izaya said nothing. When you looked at him, you found his left eyebrow raised in a plain, unassuming expression.

“Were you autistic as a human?”

“What?” You asked, confused.

“Autistic? Do you know what that means? Going by your confusion, I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ Maybe you were born in the medieval era then, or some other period where autism was misdiagnosed as insanity. Were you ostracized from your hometown? Never mind. Put simply, autism is a mental disorder. Although it can vary in specific conditions from one human to the next, people that are autistic usually have issues forming relationships, interacting with other humans, communicating, and using language. They tend to display repetitive behaviors and perform specific routines or rituals to minimize their stress—like you with your book counting—and avoid eye contact. Being autistic could explain why you’re able to beat me at chess with such blatantly obvious moves, but simply having a high IQ would work too. It would just be far less interesting.”

“I’m not autistic.”

“Hmph.” Izaya seemed disappointed. Well, so were you. He had 107 books! That was an odd-freaking number! And most of them were _fake_!

There was even a head behind the fake ones!

“You should buy thirteen more books. Real books.”

“Why? So I’ll have 120 books on the bookshelf? Do you not like odd numbers?”

“So you’ll have 100 _real_ books.”

“Hm. Maybe I should buy fourteen more books so I have one hundred and _one_ real books. Then it’ll be like having one hundred and one Dalmatians.”

You frowned at him. “What would you do with all those dogs?”

“Make a fur coat.” He grinned.

You didn’t get it. His grin grew. He patted the space beside him on the couch, beckoning you to join him.

“Come. We’ll watch _101 Dalmatians._ Then you’ll understand.”

~

It took thirty minutes for Izaya to convince you that the television wasn’t trying to kill you, honestly, those were just fake bullet sounds coming from it and even if they were real bullets they were made of led and not wood or silver and so you wouldn’t die, so please come out from under the bed already, and how did you even fit under there in the first place? It’s not like there’s much room between the floor and the bed.

You didn’t finish watching the movie anyways. Once he’d persuaded you to cuddle, you’d somehow wound up having sex again and then you’d promptly fallen asleep.

~

“Do you need to sleep?” Izaya asked as soon as you woke up. You didn’t know what day it was. Or what time. You rubbed your eyes and glared at the clock, which seemed to say that it had either been three hours or fifteen hours since you’d fallen asleep.

“No.”

“Then why do you fall asleep?”

“I don’t have enough blood in me. My body is trying to preserve energy.”

Moments later, a barren wrist was presented to you.

“Drink.” Izaya ordered when you glanced up at him.

You were too tired to argue, and too hungry, so you did just that.

Two hours later, you had sex again, so the meal became moot.

~

Izaya had convinced the woman, Namie, to return. You use the word ‘convinced’ here loosely, finding the word ‘coerced’ more applicable to the situation. At least, going by Namie’s attitude towards being back in the apartment with you still in it as well.

She arrived wearing black goggles (presumably to keep from being hypnotized), covered head-to-toe in a silver mesh outfit complete with gloves and a turtleneck, and brought a wooden stake.

Izaya made her throw out the stake. He laughed at her outfit, though, and let her wear it inside.

“I’m going out to take care of some business now. Namie will look after you while I’m away.” Izaya announced. He flashed his phone at you. “Remember to behave. If you get hungry, there’s some food in the fridge. I know it’s not quite to your _tastes_ but if you drink from Namie, then I won’t feed you myself. Understand?”

You grumbled inaudibly from the couch. It had become your favorite spot in the apartment, aside from Izaya’s chair.

“Good.”

He left.

~

It seemed Namie was more interested in you than she originally let on.

“How long have you been alive?” She asked.

She’d been doing this for the past fifteen minutes already (you counted, your eyes fixed firmly on the round clock above the bookshelf), rotating between a set of questions she’d appeared to have memorized.

After her first question, she had waited a solid two minutes, prompted you with the question again, and after another thirty seconds, asked a different question. Now she asked the same set of questions over and over again, asking one every fifteen seconds. Just long enough that the wait between questions annoyed you more than the questions being asked at all.

“Where were you born?”

Fifteen. Ten. Five. Four. Three. Two. One…

“Can you only drink blood, or can you eat other things too?”

Fifteen. Ten. Five. One.

“Does sunlight turn you to stone?”

The questions were so _boring_. Ugh. The least she could do was come up with something original. Even Izaya’s questions were more interesting (given, he seemed to actually have half a brain and put more effort into engaging you).

He’d ask things from “Does all blood taste the same, or is it different from person to person? Do moods affect the taste? Health?” to “I imagine that if I had to be born in any other era, I would pick the Shota era. What era have you least enjoyed living through?” to even “Do you get depressed from the lack of moonlight? Since you can’t go out in the sun, and lack of sunlight causes depression—among other ailments—in humans, I can only guess that the same happens to you. Then again, you’re a vampire and not a human. The anatomy could be vastly different… Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone dissect you.”

If you were honest with yourself, that last statement of his had… _surprised_ you, impressed you even, and definitely pleased you. You could almost trust the human.

If you forgot about the whole kidnapping and imprisonment bit, that is.

Namie sighed loudly and obnoxiously.

“Really, I don’t get what Izaya sees in you. You just lay there on the couch all day, every day, saying nothing, _doing_ nothing. You’re so—boring! Ugh. If _I_ were a vampire, I would do things. Be somebody! I would… I would prove to my brother, once and for all, how worthless that little bitch is!” She laughed, and before you knew it, she was on some kind of rant about being obsessed with her brother blah, blah, blah…

You tuned her out.

What were you thinking about last? Oh, right. Izaya.

Now _that_ was an interesting human.

~

The elevator was coming back.

Okay, yes, a part of you had perked up each time you heard the elevator returning (and you could hear it, perfectly, being a vampire with excellent hearing) but this time was different! You heard Izaya _humming_.

It was a distinctive tune that ended with “tuna” every few seconds.

You don’t know why he was so obsessed with tuna. It was just dead fish. It didn’t even have any blood in it.

Of course Namie had to ruin your jolly mood right then and there by opening her mouth.

“I wonder what the vampire hunters would do if they knew Izaya had tricked them.”

You froze.

Namie didn’t notice. She was human, after all, she didn’t notice anything.

 _Izaya would have noticed_ , a small voice in your head whispered. You shushed it. You were listening to Namie right now.

“Izaya knew you existed, you know, even before you bit him that first time. And even though you’d bitten him, he wasn’t going to bother with you. It wasn’t until the vampire hunters dropped by and asked if he knew anything about you, or would help them catch you, that he decided to interfere. I don’t know _why_ , though. You did _bite_ him. And it’s not like you’re useful. You just _sit_ there.” Namie huffed. “So boring…”

The door opened then (slammed, really), and Izaya waltzed in with a cheerfully sung, “I’m home~! With fatty tuna~!”

He twirled over to the couch, plopping down right next to where your head rested, and set the bag of dead fish on the table. Peering up, you found him smiling broadly down at you.

“Missed me~?”

“Extremely,” you said without missing a beat.

His face—twitched, is the best word you can describe the action. Eyebrows up, eyes wide, face switching abruptly back to neutral, mouth turned up at the side, a scrunch in the forehead as he thought, and, all the while, his smile lingered. He hummed, at long last, and you knew by the tone that he was confused. He wasn’t sure if you were being factitious or honest.

Well, given how irksomely boring Namie was, you were being honest. But you wouldn’t let him know that. You turned your head away, tucking it back in your previous position, closed your eyes, and presumed sleep once more.

A heartbeat later (you heard his heart beating, loudly, just inches away), he laid a hand in your hair and proceeded to massage your head. You almost started purring.

 _Almost_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elevenses: “a short break for light refreshments, usually with tea or coffee, taken about eleven o'clock in the morning.”


	10. (M) Chapter 6: The Table D'hôte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male-reader perspective.

A dullahan visited Izaya.

Before she even entered the apartment, you could sense her. You bolted down from the upper level couch, hovering by the door, before zipping to settle on the main level couch, your eyes trained on the door, your ears straining for the lack of sound she would inevitably make.

It was a distinct noise that only a vampire, as far as you were concerned, could even notice: as though all sounds had washed away, leaving the echoes of nothingness in its wake.

You’d only encountered a dullahan once before. It was with your maker. You were young then, freshly turned, _hungry_. She’d come to take away your first… _meal_. It had unsettled you, thoroughly, the way that your hunger had consumed you, blinded you, the way that something, once so alive, was suddenly _not_. And it was your fault.

That was the only time you’d actually drained a person.

And so it happened that when the dullahan had arrived, your maker had shared some words with her while you stood off to the side, retching up everything you had consumed just moments ago. It had not been a pretty sight. You’d only gotten three glimpses of her before she’d gotten back on her carriage and left: when she first arrived, in-between retches, and as she left.

Your maker had not shared much about her either.

So this time, when the dullahan entered the apartment, you did not let your attention waver, not once, and tried to memorize as much as you could about the encounter.

It was not often you got to see a dullahan without getting a basin of blood thrown at you, or at least, that’s what your maker had told you.

“Ah~ Celty~ what a pleasant surprise!” Izaya sang, spinning around in his chair once before vaulting out of it and bouncing across the room.

The dullahan, whom you were now certain was the same one that your maker knew since they shared the same name and appearance, stopped him from hugging her by pointing a scythe made of her shadows at his throat.

She whipped a phone out of her pocket, typed furiously away, and held the phone up to him.

You wondered why she did not just speak.

“Always quick to get down to business, really, it’s like you don’t want to be friends. I’m hurt, Celty.”

“‘A dullahan’s time is precious. Don’t waste it.’” You said, quoting your maker.

Celty and Izaya looked at you, Izaya with an eyebrow raised in interest. Celty typed something on her phone and held it up to you this time.

“ _You know what I am? Do I know you?_ ” the screen read.

Confused, you wondered, _Does she not remember? But, don’t dullahans have the best memories out of all immortal creatures?_

Izaya peered around her shoulder to read the screen as well.

“I’m curious too, do you know her? Or are you just able to sense what she is, being something out of the ordinary yourself?”

You ignored his questions.

“We met, once,” you answered her. “Over five hundred years ago. You’re Celty, the dullahan of Ireland. My maker knows you. I don’t really know you though.” You considered her carefully, adding, “You had longer hair when we met. It was so long, it dragged on the floor, no matter how high you held your head up… I remember because I was worried you would get… stuff… in your hair.” You mumbled the rest, not wanting to admit that you were worried she would get _your puke in her hair._ She didn’t, thankfully.

Whatever the case, your answer did not seem to please her. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect, going by how rigidly she suddenly stood, how her arms shook as she typed furiously away at her phone and then shoved the device in your face and exclaimed—

“ _You remember what my face looks like?! You actually met me when I was in Ireland!! Do you remember anything else?!_ ”

 _Oh. Maybe she is happy_ , you thought, eyeing the way her shadow tendrils did a crazy dance in the background. Excitement vibrated off of her in waves and—wait. _What?!_

“Did you lose your memories?” You noticed something. She didn’t have her head. _Anywhere!_ “You didn’t lose your head, did you?!”

A horrible thought crossed your mind—the head on the bookshelf: it looked familiar. _It was her head!_

Your question freaked her out. _Her question_ freaked _you_ out!

Dullahans never lost their heads! They never lost their _memories_! And if it was her head on the bookshelf, why couldn’t she sense it?!

“ _I didn’t mean too! Somebody stole it and I’ve been trying to find it and—_ ” She took her phone back suddenly, erasing the rest of the words before you could read them and typing more. “ _What do you know about my kind?_ ”

All at once, you felt lightheaded. You swayed on the couch while your stomach churned unpleasantly. If a dullahan could lose their head and their memories to a mortal, then… _you could die_! You could die in this crummy apartment!

“I think that’s enough excitement for one day. Celty, why don’t you leave the poor boy alone? He’s had a long day... Besides, you have important business to attend to, don’t you?”

While you balanced precariously on the couch, Celty typed something and shoved her phone in Izaya’s face. The motion screamed rage, as did the shadow tendrils forming miniature scythes around her.

As much as Izaya could be annoying, and as beneficial towards your escape it would be if Celty happened to summon him to death… something about the prospect of losing your most favorite meal made your skin crawl.

“Celty, I’ll tell you my maker’s name, if you don’t call Izaya’s name.”

Once more, all occupants in the room looked at you. Izaya said nothing. He watched you. Like a hawk.

“ _What do you mean, if I don’t call his name?_ ” Celty’s phone read.

“I mean just that. Don’t call his name.” Through the haze of lightheadedness—and now you were wondering if it was more due to hunger than to being in the presence of an amnesic dullahan—you squinted up at her. “That’s how mortals die. You stop somewhere, call their name, and that mortal goes to that place and dies. Then you carry them off. I saw it. Mostly. I remember the carriage and headless horse and the name calling.”

You remembered the name calling because you crouched there, holding a once-living corpse whose name you hadn’t even known, and then like some angel, the dullahan called that name—and took away the mortal.

At first, you’d thought that the dullahan had known him and, well, you felt worse for having accidentally killed him. After your maker had explained that the dullahan only called those that were going to die and didn’t actually know their names, you’d still felt ashamed.

What kind of monster were you to not know his name in the first place?

You didn’t notice how Celty’s hands shook as she typed, too engrossed in your own miserable memories. No wonder your maker hadn’t cared to say much about the dullahan. They just brought up bad memories.

“ _Alright. I won’t call Izaya’s name._ ”

She held out a hand for you to shake, which you did, ignoring how the black smoky tendrils around her seemed to reach down her arm and ooze into your bone, how they shocked you to the very core with a touch so cold, it made you think of being buried alive in Antarctica. Once agreed, you whispered the name of your maker to her so only she could hear.

You then turned around, grabbed the blanket folded on the back of the couch, rolled yourself into a little cocoon, and tried to forget all the horrible cold memories boiling to the surface.

Izaya made some humming noise, a sound you’d come to associate with curiosity, and asked Celty what name you had shared with her. Based on his amused and dismissive response, you could tell she’d said something along the lines of ‘none of his business.’ You ignored the rest of what they said.

When she left, Izaya plopped onto the couch beside you and began to massage your head. You allowed it.

“You look upset, curled up in that blanket like that. I’ve never seen you like this before. I must admit, I’m a little disappointed it wasn’t me that put you in this mood. So tell me, is this ‘maker’ of yours really that terrible, that the mere thought of them upsets you?”

“No,” you muttered. “It’s just scary that you have her head on your shelf and she can’t even sense it.”

His hand froze in your hair, mid-stroke.

“And you didn’t tell her?”

“You heard the words I said.” You huffed, rolling your eyes and burrowing further into the blanket.

He resumed stroking your hair with slow, lethargic movements that, if you were human, would’ve put you to sleep right then and there. You nearly purred.

“Why didn’t you tell her, if it disturbs you so much that she doesn’t have it?”

You shrugged your shoulders. You honestly didn’t know. You could’ve told her… you _should’ve_ told her. But something… something in you made you bite your tongue, made you hold in the answer. Much the same way that you had bitten your tongue for your maker countless times, holding in a retort or something else that could betray him.

“Perhaps you have a grudge against her?”

You shook your head negatively.

Izaya hummed thoughtfully, “Curious.” He sighed and stretched, getting up. A short whine escaped you when he stopped petting you. “Well, since you’ve been so good lately, I’ll take this off.”

Frozen in place, you were stiller than a statue while Izaya removed the silver collar. Your neck immediately felt barren, cold, _foreign_ , and even though you were underneath a warm blanket, you shivered.

“I should let you know that I’ll be having more visitors today,” Izaya added, “And I’ll head out for a bit too. Namie will watch after you. Try not to misbehave, hm?”

You huffed audibly and hid further in the blanket. It irked you how little you’d actually ‘misbehaved’ since being here. You were becoming too soft. Or, as Izaya would put it, too ‘house-trained.’

You weren’t even _running out the door_ right now, and it was a perfect opportunity!

 _It’s not, really_ , you told yourself. _It’s probably a test or a trap._ You would escape.

Just later.

~

All the same garbage-stinking people as before were over again, including the heavily chemically sprayed Namie.

For fun, you hung from the corner of the ceiling, upside-down, and stared at the human named ‘Ran.’ Last time, you’d scared him into peeing in his pants. This time, you frightened him into holding up a cross (not that it did him much good) throughout the meeting. This caused the other humans to tease him about his paranoia, and Izaya to switch back and forth between bemused satisfaction and annoyed aggravation at his carefully crafted meeting being so easily disrupted.

He was mainly amused. You knew this because he smelled nice. Like spiced apples.

Your stomach gurgled.

“Alright, we’re all familiar with the plan. Let’s go.” Izaya ordered, causing everyone to rise up with various grumbles and stretches. “Namie, stay here and watch over our little friend. He needs to be fed every three hours—”

“I’m _not_ giving him my blood!”

“I didn’t _suggest_ you do that. Before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to explain: there are bags of blood in the fridge. Pour one of those into a glass and give it to him.”

“I didn’t have to do that before. Why can’t he do that himself now?” Namie snapped.

They all looked at you. You were still hanging from the ceiling, perfectly still, and wore a blank, partially zoned-out expression.

You didn’t blink.

The one named Ran held up a garlic clove, as though this would protect him. Honestly, you don’t know _why_ he bothered with the garlic. Sure, it stunk, but not as badly as the _human_ did. You decided to mention this.

“That garlic doesn’t do anything to mask your stench. You should shower more often. And eat flowers.”

Izaya laughed.

Ran sputtered indignantly.

“He could feed himself, if he wanted too, but if I were you, I’d try to keep him happy.” Izaya mused aloud as he slipped his shoes on. “Although, unlike Ran, he has sufficient brain cells to judge whether he should be killing everyone in this room or letting them live. You should take his words to heart, you know, and shower more often, Ran. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have our business taken care of _before_ sushi half-off hour begins. Let’s go.”

They left.

Namie glowered at you from behind her desk.

“What happened to your collar?”

You considered her, considered how much she would annoy you for the next who-knew-how-long-while-Izaya-was-gone, and considered the likelihood that Izaya had booby-trapped his apartment with silver.

You decided to take a risk.

In a heartbeat, you were in front of Namie, looking her dead in the eye.

“Namie?” you asked.

“Yes?” her eyes glazed over.

 _Good,_ you grinned, your teeth flashing. You could still hypnotize people.

“Don’t bother me. Ever.”

“Okay.” She nodded dumbly. You let the hypnosis end and meandered off to Izaya’s bathroom.

He had a giant tub. The kind that could massage you _and_ clean you. After the harrowing past few weeks, you deserved a massaging bath.

~

Hours, minutes, seconds, heartbeats—an unfairly short amount of time—passed with you relaxing in the ginormous massaging bubble bath before you felt it.

_Fear._

A horrible racket immediately followed the sound, the whole apartment shaking, and the water in the tub sloshed over the sides.

It wasn’t your fear either. It took you several moments longer than you would’ve liked to parcel it out, especially amid the commotion, but eventually it clicked.

Izaya was afraid. He was in danger.

“Great.” You groaned, and debated leaving him to his fate.

It didn’t take you long to decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this and the next chapter were one chapter, and it was going to be the last, but I really dislike ending on Chapter 6, so this was divided into two and now there will be a Chapter 7. :)
> 
>  **Table d'hôte:** a French phrase meaning “the host’s table” or “table of the host.” _Table d'hôte_ was originally used to indicate a table intentionally set aside to accommodate guests (that were staying in the guest house) that would be sitting with the host during the meal.


	11. (F) Chapter 6: The Table D'hôte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female-reader perspective.

A dullahan visited Izaya.

Before she even entered the apartment, you could sense her. You bolted down from the upper level couch, hovering by the door, before zipping to settle on the main level couch, your eyes trained on the door, your ears straining for the lack of sound she would inevitably make.

It was a distinct noise that only a vampire, as far as you were concerned, could even notice: as though all sounds had washed away, leaving the echoes of nothingness in its wake.

You’d only encountered a dullahan once before. It was with your maker. You were young then, freshly turned, _hungry_. She’d come to take away your first… _meal_. It had unsettled you, thoroughly, the way that your hunger had consumed you, blinded you, the way that something, once so alive, was suddenly _not_. And it was your fault.

That was the only time you’d actually drained a person.

And so it happened that when the dullahan had arrived, your maker had shared some words with her while you stood off to the side, retching up everything you had consumed just moments ago. It had not been a pretty sight. You’d only gotten three glimpses of her before she’d gotten back on her carriage and left: when she first arrived, in-between retches, and as she left.

Your maker had not shared much about her either.

So this time, when the dullahan entered the apartment, you did not let your attention waver, not once, and tried to memorize as much as you could about the encounter.

It was not often you got to see a dullahan without getting a basin of blood thrown at you, or at least, that’s what your maker had told you.

“Ah~ Celty~ what a pleasant surprise!” Izaya sang, spinning around in his chair once before vaulting out of it and bouncing across the room.

The dullahan, whom you were now certain was the same one that your maker knew since they shared the same name and appearance, stopped him from hugging her by pointing a scythe made of her shadows at his throat.

She whipped a phone out of her pocket, typed furiously away, and held the phone up to him.

You wondered why she did not just speak.

“Always quick to get down to business, really, it’s like you don’t want to be friends. I’m hurt, Celty.”

“‘A dullahan’s time is precious. Don’t waste it.’” You said, quoting your maker.

Celty and Izaya looked at you, Izaya with an eyebrow raised in interest. Celty typed something on her phone and held it up to you this time.

“ _You know what I am? Do I know you?_ ” the screen read.

Confused, you wondered, _Does she not remember? But, don’t dullahans have the best memories out of all immortal creatures?_

Izaya peered around her shoulder to read the screen as well.

“I’m curious too, do you know her? Or are you just able to sense what she is, being something out of the ordinary yourself?”

You ignored his questions.

“We met, once,” you answered her. “Over five hundred years ago. You’re Celty, the dullahan of Ireland. My maker knows you. I don’t really know you though.” You considered her carefully, adding, “You had longer hair when we met. It was so long, it dragged on the floor, no matter how high you held your head up… I remember because I was worried you would get… stuff… in your hair.” You mumbled the rest, not wanting to admit that you were worried she would get _your puke in her hair._ She didn’t, thankfully.

Whatever the case, your answer did not seem to please her. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect, going by how rigidly she suddenly stood, how her arms shook as she typed furiously away at her phone and then shoved the device in your face and exclaimed—

“ _You remember what my face looks like?! You actually met me when I was in Ireland!! Do you remember anything else?!_ ”

 _Oh. Maybe she is happy_ , you thought, eyeing the way her shadow tendrils did a crazy dance in the background. Excitement vibrated off of her in waves and—wait. _What?!_

“Did you lose your memories?” You noticed something. She didn’t have her head. _Anywhere!_ “You didn’t lose your head, did you?!”

A horrible thought crossed your mind—the head on the bookshelf: it looked familiar. _It was her head!_

Your question freaked her out. _Her question_ freaked _you_ out!

Dullahans never lost their heads! They never lost their _memories_! And if it was her head on the bookshelf, why couldn’t she sense it?!

“ _I didn’t mean too! Somebody stole it and I’ve been trying to find it and—_ ” She took her phone back suddenly, erasing the rest of the words before you could read them and typing more. “ _What do you know about my kind?_ ”

All at once, you felt lightheaded. You swayed on the couch while your stomach churned unpleasantly. If a dullahan could lose their head and their memories to a mortal, then… _you could die_! You could die in this crummy apartment!

“I think that’s enough excitement for one day. Celty, why don’t you leave the poor girl alone? She’s had a long day... Besides, you have important business to attend to, don’t you?”

While you balanced precariously on the couch, Celty typed something and shoved her phone in Izaya’s face. The motion screamed rage, as did the shadow tendrils forming miniature scythes around her.

As much as Izaya could be annoying, and as beneficial towards your escape it would be if Celty happened to summon him to death… something about the prospect of losing your most favorite meal made your skin crawl.

“Celty, I’ll tell you my maker’s name, if you don’t call Izaya’s name.”

Once more, all occupants in the room looked at you. Izaya said nothing. He watched you. Like a hawk.

“ _What do you mean, if I don’t call his name?_ ” Celty’s phone read.

“I mean just that. Don’t call his name.” Through the haze of lightheadedness—and now you were wondering if it was more due to hunger than to being in the presence of an amnesic dullahan—you squinted up at her. “That’s how mortals die. You stop somewhere, call their name, and that mortal goes to that place and dies. Then you carry them off. I saw it. Mostly. I remember the carriage and headless horse and the name calling.”

You remembered the name calling because you crouched there, holding a once-living corpse whose name you hadn’t even known, and then like some angel, the dullahan called that name—and took away the mortal.

At first, you’d thought that the dullahan had known him and, well, you felt worse for having accidentally killed him. After your maker had explained that the dullahan only called those that were going to die and didn’t actually know their names, you’d still felt ashamed.

What kind of monster were you to not know his name in the first place?

You didn’t notice how Celty’s hands shook as she typed, too engrossed in your own miserable memories. No wonder your maker hadn’t cared to say much about the dullahan. They just brought up bad memories.

“ _Alright. I won’t call Izaya’s name._ ”

She held out a hand for you to shake, which you did, ignoring how the black smoky tendrils around her seemed to reach down her arm and ooze into your bone, how they shocked you to the very core with a touch so cold, it made you think of being buried alive in Antarctica. Once agreed, you whispered the name of your maker to her so only she could hear.

You then turned around, grabbed the blanket folded on the back of the couch, rolled yourself into a little cocoon, and tried to forget all the horrible cold memories boiling to the surface.

Izaya made some humming noise, a sound you’d come to associate with curiosity, and asked Celty what name you had shared with her. Based on his amused and dismissive response, you could tell she’d said something along the lines of ‘none of his business.’ You ignored the rest of what they said.

When she left, Izaya plopped onto the couch beside you and began to massage your head. You allowed it.

“You look upset, curled up in that blanket like that. I’ve never seen you like this before. I must admit, I’m a little disappointed it wasn’t me that put you in this mood. So tell me, is this ‘maker’ of yours really that terrible, that the mere thought of them upsets you?”

“No,” you muttered. “It’s just scary that you have her head on your shelf and she can’t even sense it.”

His hand froze in your hair, mid-stroke.

“And you didn’t tell her?”

“You heard the words I said.” You huffed, rolling your eyes and burrowing further into the blanket.

He resumed stroking your hair with slow, lethargic movements that, if you were human, would’ve put you to sleep right then and there. You nearly purred.

“Why didn’t you tell her, if it disturbs you so much that she doesn’t have it?”

You shrugged your shoulders. You honestly didn’t know. You could’ve told her… you _should’ve_ told her. But something… something in you made you bite your tongue, made you hold in the answer. Much the same way that you had bitten your tongue for your maker countless times, holding in a retort or something else that could betray him.

“Perhaps you have a grudge against her?”

You shook your head negatively.

Izaya hummed thoughtfully, “Curious.” He sighed and stretched, getting up. A short whine escaped you when he stopped petting you. “Well, since you’ve been so good lately, I’ll take this off.”

Frozen in place, you were stiller than a statue while Izaya removed the silver collar. Your neck immediately felt barren, cold, _foreign_ , and even though you were underneath a warm blanket, you shivered.

“I should let you know that I’ll be having more visitors today,” Izaya added, “And I’ll head out for a bit too. Namie will watch after you. Try not to misbehave, hm?”

You huffed audibly and hid further in the blanket. It irked you how little you’d actually ‘misbehaved’ since being here. You were becoming too soft. Or, as Izaya would put it, too ‘house-trained.’

You weren’t even _running out the door_ right now, and it was a perfect opportunity!

 _It’s not, really_ , you told yourself. _It’s probably a test or a trap._ You would escape.

Just later.

~

All the same garbage-stinking people as before were over again, including the heavily chemically sprayed Namie.

For fun, you hung from the corner of the ceiling, upside-down, and stared at the human named ‘Ran.’ Last time, you’d scared him into peeing in his pants. This time, you frightened him into holding up a cross (not that it did him much good) throughout the meeting. This caused the other humans to tease him about his paranoia, and Izaya to switch back and forth between bemused satisfaction and annoyed aggravation at his carefully crafted meeting being so easily disrupted.

He was mainly amused. You knew this because he smelled nice. Like spiced apples.

Your stomach gurgled.

“Alright, we’re all familiar with the plan. Let’s go.” Izaya ordered, causing everyone to rise up with various grumbles and stretches. “Namie, stay here and watch over our little friend. She needs to be fed every three hours—”

“I’m _not_ giving her my blood!”

“I didn’t _suggest_ you do that. Before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to explain: there are bags of blood in the fridge. Pour one of those into a glass and give it to her.”

“I didn’t have to do that before. Why can’t she do that herself now?” Namie snapped.

They all looked at you. You were still hanging from the ceiling, perfectly still, and wore a blank, partially zoned-out expression.

You didn’t blink.

The one named Ran held up a garlic clove, as though this would protect him. Honestly, you don’t know _why_ he bothered with the garlic. Sure, it stunk, but not as badly as the _human_ did. You decided to mention this.

“That garlic doesn’t do anything to mask your stench. You should shower more often. And eat flowers.”

Izaya laughed.

Ran sputtered indignantly.

“She could feed herself, if she wanted too, but if I were you, I’d try to keep her happy.” Izaya mused aloud as he slipped his shoes on. “Although, unlike Ran, she has sufficient brain cells to judge whether she should be killing everyone in this room or letting them live. You should take her words to heart, you know, and shower more often, Ran. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have our business taken care of _before_ sushi half-off hour begins. Let’s go.”

They left.

Namie glowered at you from behind her desk.

“What happened to your collar?”

You considered her, considered how much she would annoy you for the next who-knew-how-long-while-Izaya-was-gone, and considered the likelihood that Izaya had booby-trapped his apartment with silver.

You decided to take a risk.

In a heartbeat, you were in front of Namie, looking her dead in the eye.

“Namie?” you asked.

“Yes?” her eyes glazed over.

 _Good,_ you grinned, your teeth flashing. You could still hypnotize people.

“Don’t bother me. Ever.”

“Okay.” She nodded dumbly. You let the hypnosis end and meandered off to Izaya’s bathroom.

He had a giant tub. The kind that could massage you _and_ clean you. After the harrowing past few weeks, you deserved a massaging bath.

~

Hours, minutes, seconds, heartbeats—an unfairly short amount of time—passed with you relaxing in the ginormous massaging bubble bath before you felt it.

_Fear._

A horrible racket immediately followed the sound, the whole apartment shaking, and the water in the tub sloshed over the sides.

It wasn’t your fear either. It took you several moments longer than you would’ve liked to parcel it out, especially amid the commotion, but eventually it clicked.

Izaya was afraid. He was in danger.

“Great.” You groaned, and debated leaving him to his fate.

It didn’t take you long to decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this and the next chapter were one chapter, and it was going to be the last, but I really dislike ending on Chapter 6, so this was divided into two and now there will be a Chapter 7. :)
> 
>  **Table d'hôte:** a French phrase meaning “the host’s table” or “table of the host.” _Table d'hôte_ was originally used to indicate a table intentionally set aside to accommodate guests (that were staying in the guest house) that would be sitting with the host during the meal.


	12. (M) Chapter 7: The Food-Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you go hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male-reader perspective.

Okay, so the human female—Namie, she had a name, Namie—was a force to be reckoned with.

There were a bunch of humans in the apartment and they had weapons.

They were trying to… kill Namie? Steal the dullahan’s head? You weren’t sure _what_ because they were completely ineffective.

The humans stumbled about the room, knocking into furniture, head-butting each other, and trying to ward off Namie’s attacks. She was excellent at throwing books while holding the dullahan’s head, you decided, although the books deserved better treatment.

You didn’t have time to wait for her to beat them, though: Izaya was in danger and you needed answers. _Now._

You ran from one end of the apartment to the next, tripping humans, stealing weapons, hissing and dropping them when they turned out to be made of silver, grabbing the rope you knew was stored in the closet, zipping back across the room, and tying each human up. You kicked them for good measure, and knocked their heads together so they were unconscious.

Once finished, you grinned at your handiwork, pleased despite the wreckage. You were a good house pet.

You immediately grimaced at the thought, pivoted on your heel, and prepared to leave. Hardly two steps out the door, you darted back into the room.

Namie stood frozen, petrified really, in the middle of the fallen men. Before she could move, you hypnotized her.

“Explain. Now.”

“Yodogiri set this up,” she said monotonously, her eyes glazed over. The words tumbled out easily, one explanation after the next. “He knows what you are, and wanted to capture you and the dullahan’s head, to use you both. What for, I don’t know. He’s gone after Izaya now. He knows Izaya means something to you and will try to use him to get to you.”

With a hiss, you dropped the hypnosis. Namie swayed in her spot. She clutched her head and huffed, muttering something along the lines of you ‘not having to do that to get answers’ and she ‘was going to tell you anyways.’

You ignored her.

Stalking about the apartment, you inhaled the various scents as much as possible, memorizing the different notes, the different qualities. There was one trace that lingered everywhere, on every person, every object. It smelt like flesh left out to bake in the sun. It grossed you out, but it was easy to identify.

“What are you going to do?” Namie asked, her voice firm, if a bit quiet.

She stood behind the couch now, appearing to place distance and a barricade between you and her. Even though she didn’t act it, she was afraid of you. The sour notes surrounded her.

“I’m going to kill this Yodogiri. Nobody plays with my food.”

Namie didn’t say anything at your answer, not until you started walking out the door again.

“They know your weaknesses.”

“I know.”

“… They’ll be in the red-light district. It’s easy to hide there.”

You grinned, “Not from me.”

~

It wasn’t hard to find Izaya, not because you had a good nose and were a good hunter, but because he’d drunk enough of your blood over the past few weeks that when he was afraid, like now, you could sense where he was located in the city.

Namie’s tip about the red-light district helped too.

Unsurprisingly, they’d taken him to some creepy little warehouse surrounded by idiot humans equipped with silver.

 _Mint_. The distinctive and overwhelming scent distracted you long enough that a silver knife _almost_ hit you. Instead, it imbedded itself into the wall of the storage container behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You jumped onto the storage container in front of you milliseconds before a silver grappling hook latched into the same wall. ~~~~

 _Yay, grappling hooks and knives. What fun_! You thought sarcastically.

“So you’re fast!” one of the humans, and you didn’t bother noting anything about the pest aside from the fact that he wore black, said as he ripped the hook out of the wall and twirled it in the air.

You could hear heavy breathing from the three other humans, all hidden, in the area. As you thought about which to address first, you leaped from the storage container to the roof of the warehouse, unknowingly dodging a silver arrow.

“You won’t be able to run forever!”

 _Talking_. Why was it that the ones who were incompetent always talked a lot? Was it that the experienced ones had “seen so much” that they lost the will to speak? Or were the idiots trying to compensate for their inferiority by boasting?

 _Okay, maybe that was a bit mean_ , you thought, looping lethargically around the warehouse and across the storage containers, trying to figure out where all the humans were and how they fought.

They were honestly, legitimately, _shit_ at fighting. Their yakking did little to help them, but it was funny to hear.

“He’s over there! On the roof again!”

“No! I just saw him by the cars!”

“Are you _blind_ , man?! He’s by the fucking warehouse entrance!”

“Y’all useless! Why th’hell I’d join ya, huh?!”

“Shut up, Freddie, and get the netting ready!”

“I ain’t doin’ shit, man! Y’all gonna die!”

Yup. They were going to die.

But not because of you. You had more important things to deal with, so as you looped once more around the warehouse, now knowing where all the humans were, you knocked each one out with a simple punch and collected their weapons.

You dumped the weapons in the water. There. _That wasn’t so hard!_

Turning back to the warehouse, you decided the best place to enter was through the upper level. So you hopped onto one of the side roofs and slipped through a window onto the second floor of the warehouse, slithering onto the beams that overlooked the main level.

Izaya had to be somewhere here. _Somewhere_.

~

Izaya was pissed. Not because he was captured—that had, obviously, been part of the whole plan to find out Yodogiri’s true identity—but because Yodogiri was _stupid enough_ to believe he could work with the vampire hunters in collecting _his pet_. Collecting _you_.

But he wasn’t even really pissed off about that. Izaya had anticipated an alliance between Yodogiri and the vampire hunters.

It was because he’d felt _fear_. For a moment. A millisecond, really, Izaya had thought about you, about Yodogiri getting his filthy hands on you, on what he might do, and felt something indescribable. A cross between wanting to stomp on all of Yodogiri’s phones until he was nothing more than a whimpering mess on the floor and wanting to hide you away in some dark corner so that no one, not even Celty, would ever find you. Anger and _fear_.

Izaya grinned, despite being blindfolded and tied to a chair, and said, in as much a bored tone as he could muster underneath the rage boiling in his veins, “You know, I’m not really one to make ideal _threats_ , but… I’m going to enjoy stabbing you to death, Yodogiri.”

~

This was easier than you’d anticipated. Much easier. Izaya was tied to a chair in the middle of the warehouse and the culprits were gathered around him. Many of them wielded weapons, but none wielded _silver_ weapons.

The guy in charge was obvious too; he wore a white suit and stood apart from the others.

You jumped down from the rafters into the middle of the fray, close to Izaya. The men startled, stepping back. All except for Mr. White Suit. He grinned at you and offered a hand to shake.

“My, my, so we finally meet. I’ve always wanted to meet a vampire in person, and now I can say I finally have.”

You refused to shake his hand. He waved your reluctance off with a shrug.

“You’re right, formalities aren’t needed. We all know why we’re here, don’t we?”

He was talking too much. His men weren’t moving. Obviously, they were idiots. You weren’t.

While he yakked away, you walked over to Izaya and began undoing his restraints.

“Now, now, I wouldn’t do that just yet.” You kept at it despite Mr. White Suit’s words. “We tied him up just for you!” That stopped you. You looked up, meeting his eerie gaze. He grinned. “Ah, that got your attention? Yes, well, tying him up like that wasn’t really for our benefit. Killing Orihara? Sure, that would take care of his constant meddling in our… _affairs_. But… well, it wouldn’t benefit us _personally_. Now you? I hear Mr. Orihara had you trapped this whole time… locked away… like a _pet_.”

You glared at him.

“Don’t like that word? I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t like being called it either. Anyways, we’d like to make a… _business_ arrangement, if you would, with you. You may kill Mr. Orihara here however you like, and in return for providing him, you’ll work for us. We won’t treat you like a pet; we’re not barbaric like Mr. Orihara. No, we appreciate our employees thoroughly.”

“Is that why your men outside tried to kill me?”

Mr. White Suit scoffed. “Nonsense, they were under _strict_ orders not to harm a hair on your head.”

“You should vet your employees more thoroughly.”

Mr. White Suit laughed.

“Ah, I can see why Mr. Orihara kept you so long. You’ve got good wit. But no, you’re right. If they didn’t do their job properly, then we’ll have to deal with them appropriately. I apologize for any… _inconvenience_ they may have caused you. But they didn’t hurt you, did they? They couldn’t. They’re not nearly that skilled. You’re much stronger than them. Much stronger than anyone else here!” He held his arms wide open, motioning to all the men with weapons.

 _Mint. Ginger. Mud._ Your nose tinkled with the familiar scents, and you sneezed.

“God bless you.” Mr. White Suit said.

You sniffed. So this was why it was so easy? He wanted to partner with you? Wanted to let you extract revenge on Izaya for catching you? For calling you his _pet_?

You flexed your fingers, reaching out to curl your claws around Izaya’s shoulder. You could finally be free. Finally escape.

That’s what they wanted you to believe.

Too bad for them you didn’t believe in liars.

You cut Izaya loose.

Izaya grinned and massaged his wrists.

“A monster blessing a mythical creature that’s rumored to have no soul. Heh. I’m not sure which is funnier. What’s the matter, Yodogiri? You look surprised. Don’t tell me you honestly expected my little pet to be anything but loyal.”

With a growl, you flashed your teeth at Izaya for calling you _pet_ again. Izaya offered an apologetic smile and sheepish shrug in return.

Mr. White Suit sighed dramatically. He held up a hand and waved two fingers. Vampire Hunters appeared out of the shadows with wooden bows and arrows. Your skin crawled.

 _That’s_ what the familiar scent had been. _That’s_ what had the hairs on your neck standing on end earlier. It was a trap! A bloody trap! And you fell for it!

Your Maker had warned you about your foolishness, your brashness. He’d even said, “ _Anything that is too easy is a lie. Always be ready for the trap._ ” You were such an idiot!

“I’m disappointed in your choice. But that’s alright. I—”

Izaya darted forward, moving faster than a vampire—was he a vampire?!—and sliced a knife through Mr. White Suit. The guy gripped Izaya’s wrist, holding the knife now imbedded in his stomach.

“Let me guess, you’re not the real Yodogiri, are you?” Izaya asked the question with convincing disinterest, but you’d gotten so used to his expressions by now that you could see the barest hint of frustration in the way his mouth curled just _so_ at the edges.

Mr. White Suit grinned even while he began to cough violently. He opened his mouth to say something but Izaya twisted the knife the rest of the way into his stomach and ripped it back out.

He dropped to the ground. Limp. Unmoving.

 _Dead_.

You almost vomited at the sight.

For a vampire, you’re not really great at the whole cold-blooded killer thing.

Izaya cleaned his knife on his coat, completely unfazed by his previous actions.

“Now that your previous partner is dead, what will you do?” Izaya drawled to the gathered audience. “Although, you saw how he tried to make a deal with a vampire… I wonder, would you have remained partners with him after that?”

“No.” One of the vampire hunters stepped forward, sliding her scarf down so you could see her lips moving. She, like the others, wore a special pair of tinted goggles that prevented you from hypnotizing her. She kept her crossbow pointed steadily at your neck. “We would’ve taken care of him too, but you saved us the hassle of that. Are you finally going to give us that thing?” She waved her bow at you.

Izaya tucked his knife away and his hands into his pocket. He stood squarely in front of you.

“No.” He said simply.

What was he, _insanely?!_ Why was he so relaxed? Didn’t he realize how dire the situation was? If he did this, he would die! You were going to _die!_ To finally _die!_

Was it just you or was it getting unbearably hot in here? You started to wheeze. Had the vampire hunters released some kind of toxic gas?

They weren’t moving. Izaya still stood in front of you. You couldn’t tell if he said anything or not, but the lady vampire hunter’s mouth moved which meant she was responding with something.

You couldn’t hear her words over the ringing in your ears.

Wooden arrows.

Silver arrowheads.

Silver bullets.

Three of them held weapons that shot out silver nets.

There was no way you were getting Izaya out of this.

Wait.

What?

Izaya wasn’t the one that could die from wooden arrows! He’d be fine! Mostly… maybe… okay, maybe he wouldn’t. You wouldn’t know either way cause you would already be dead. Why were you even concerned? Why had you even come here to save him? He was a nuisance!

Sure he fed you, took care of you, played chess with you, asked you interesting questions, saved you from the vampire hunters originally, tried to save you just now, cuddled you—

You were attached. When did you become attached to a human?

Nevermind that. One of the vampire hunters shot their arrow in an arc, aiming for you.

You dodged to the left, then ducked just before another hunter could hit you with a bullet—an arrow brushed by your face, millimeters away, you watched it cross your field of vision before looking to your left to be sure that Izaya was okay, and yes, yes he was, he was dodging just fine on his own, flicking his knife through the air to slice through one arrow, then another—

 _Screaming_ , where was the screaming coming from? Not you, not Izaya—

Some of the hunters jumped down from their elevated perches, others scattered left and right, they all turned in different directions, not all of them facing you or Izaya—

Pandemonium.

Beyond the ringing in your ears and the screaming, you heard a sound no one else could hear: the echoes of nothingness.

The Dullahan.

_Celty!_

The way she carved a path through the hunters, her scythe slicing through bodies without severing them in half, her shadow tendrils tossing others left and right with the ease of thousands of years of experience, people running from sheer _fear_ —it was like nothing you’d seen before.

It was breathtaking.

Literally, you forgot to breath. Izaya noticed.

“Hey, it’ll be really lame if you die from suffocating yourself!” He slapped you on the back until you took in a deep breath of strawberry cheesecake with rich fudge chocolate drizzled on top.

“You smell good,” you blurted, dumbly. Izaya grinned.

“A romantic at a time like this?”

Celty finished cutting a path through the vampire hunters, stopping before you, and motioned for the two of you to get onto her motorcycle.

The motorcycle breathed.

That was all you could pay attention to.

That, and the warmth Izaya emitted, the way he hugged you close, the sweet scent of sunbaked candied apples.

~

Celty drove the two of you all the way to Izaya’s apartment.

“I must admit, I’m surprised you showed up Celty…” Izaya drawled as he dismounted from the motorcycle. “Especially after our last conversation.”

Celty typed something on her phone and showed it to him.

He hummed, “I see,” and shrugged. “Well, thanks anyways! Guess we’ll be seeing you around.”

She left without saying anything else. You looked at Izaya expectantly. He sighed mock-dramatically.

“She said that she didn’t come to save me, she came to save _you_ as a ‘thank you’ for telling her your maker’s name. She met with him, by the way, and got some helpful information. It all worked out in the end, really. But I guess this means I’m indebted to you now. It’s really awful, I was looking forward to tormenting you some more…” He mused to himself quietly, such that you wouldn’t have heard if you weren’t a vampire, “I’m not usually indebted to others.”

“You’re not indebted to me.”

“Oh? And what makes you say that?”

“You saved me.”

“Feeding you hardly counts as—”

“Not that. You knew that the hunters were after me. They came to you for help with finding me, and instead of turning me over, you kept me safe. I could’ve died. But I didn’t. Because of you. So you’re not indebted to me, and I’m not indebted to you. We’re on the same level now.”

“Hm… so Namie told you, huh? I really ought to fire her. She’s a terrible employee.” Izaya sighed and rubbed his neck. “So what will you do now? Run? Hide? It’s awfully disappointing just to say goodbye. Being a vampire must be lonely…” He tilted his head at you, his red eyes glinting in the light cast by the street lamps. Not for the last time, you wondered if he was somehow part vampire… it would explain _so many_ things about him. “You know, Yodogiri is still out there. He might come back for me, or for you. It’d be in our best interests to partner together. What do you say?”

“… will you not call me ‘pet’ anymore?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your heart thrummed loudly in your chest. Since when did your heart move this much? Weren’t you supposed to be dead?

“I want the guest room on the other end of the apartment.” You decided.

“Is that all?”

“And I get to drink your blood still.”

“That’s a lot to ask for, but you’ve proven yourself, so I’ll consent.”

“And never partner with the vampire hunters.”

Izaya grinned, pulling you close to him suddenly. You didn’t mind. The warmth felt nice. He pressed his forehead against yours, whispering, “After they tried to kill me? It would be foolish to do anything but return the favor.”

And then he kissed you.

Sweetly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The arc of this story was inspired by “Irresistible” by Fall Out Boy. You’ve no idea how tempted I was just to name different chapters after lines in the song, but then the chapter titles would be obnoxiously long. 
> 
> Thanks for enduring through this! An epilogue will be posted in the near or distant future, but otherwise this is complete. It hasn’t been beta’ed, so if you find any typos or weird grammar fumbles, please share!


	13. (F) Chapter 7: The Food-Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you go hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female-reader perspective.

Okay, so the human female—Namie, she had a name, Namie—was a force to be reckoned with.

There were a bunch of humans in the apartment and they had weapons.

They were trying to… kill Namie? Steal the dullahan’s head? You weren’t sure _what_ because they were completely ineffective.

The humans stumbled about the room, knocking into furniture, head-butting each other, and trying to ward off Namie’s attacks. She was excellent at throwing books while holding the dullahan’s head, you decided, although the books deserved better treatment.

You didn’t have time to wait for her to beat them, though: Izaya was in danger and you needed answers. _Now._

You ran from one end of the apartment to the next, tripping humans, stealing weapons, hissing and dropping them when they turned out to be made of silver, grabbing the rope you knew was stored in the closet, zipping back across the room, and tying each human up. You kicked them for good measure, and knocked their heads together so they were unconscious.

Once finished, you grinned at your handiwork, pleased despite the wreckage. You were a good house pet.

You immediately grimaced at the thought, pivoted on your heel, and prepared to leave. Hardly two steps out the door, you darted back into the room.

Namie stood frozen, petrified really, in the middle of the fallen men. Before she could move, you hypnotized her.

“Explain. Now.”

“Yodogiri set this up,” she said monotonously, her eyes glazed over. The words tumbled out easily, one explanation after the next. “He knows what you are, and wanted to capture you and the dullahan’s head, to use you both. What for, I don’t know. He’s gone after Izaya now. He knows Izaya means something to you and will try to use him to get to you.”

With a hiss, you dropped the hypnosis. Namie swayed in her spot. She clutched her head and huffed, muttering something along the lines of you ‘not having to do that to get answers’ and she ‘was going to tell you anyways.’

You ignored her.

Stalking about the apartment, you inhaled the various scents as much as possible, memorizing the different notes, the different qualities. There was one trace that lingered everywhere, on every person, every object. It smelt like flesh left out to bake in the sun. It grossed you out, but it was easy to identify.

“What are you going to do?” Namie asked, her voice firm, if a bit quiet.

She stood behind the couch now, appearing to place distance and a barricade between you and her. Even though she didn’t act it, she was afraid of you. The sour notes surrounded her.

“I’m going to kill this Yodogiri. Nobody plays with my food.”

Namie didn’t say anything at your answer, not until you started walking out the door again.

“They know your weaknesses.”

“I know.”

“… They’ll be in the red-light district. It’s easy to hide there.”

You grinned, “Not from me.”

~

It wasn’t hard to find Izaya, not because you had a good nose and were a good hunter, but because he’d drunk enough of your blood over the past few weeks that when he was afraid, like now, you could sense where he was located in the city.

Namie’s tip about the red-light district helped too.

Unsurprisingly, they’d taken him to some creepy little warehouse surrounded by idiot humans equipped with silver.

 _Mint_. The distinctive and overwhelming scent distracted you long enough that a silver knife _almost_ hit you. Instead, it imbedded itself into the wall of the storage container behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You jumped onto the storage container in front of you milliseconds before a silver grappling hook latched into the same wall. ~~~~

 _Yay, grappling hooks and knives. What fun_! You thought sarcastically.

“So you’re fast!” one of the humans, and you didn’t bother noting anything about the pest aside from the fact that he wore black, said as he ripped the hook out of the wall and twirled it in the air.

You could hear heavy breathing from the three other humans, all hidden, in the area. As you thought about which to address first, you leaped from the storage container to the roof of the warehouse, unknowingly dodging a silver arrow.

“You won’t be able to run forever!”

 _Talking_. Why was it that the ones who were incompetent always talked a lot? Was it that the experienced ones had “seen so much” that they lost the will to speak? Or were the idiots trying to compensate for their inferiority by boasting?

 _Okay, maybe that was a bit mean_ , you thought, looping lethargically around the warehouse and across the storage containers, trying to figure out where all the humans were and how they fought.

They were honestly, legitimately, _shit_ at fighting. Their yakking did little to help them, but it was funny to hear.

“She’s over there! On the roof again!”

“No! I just saw her by the cars!”

“Are you _blind_ , man?! She’s by the fucking warehouse entrance!”

“Y’all useless! Why th’hell I’d join ya, huh?!”

“Shut up, Freddie, and get the netting ready!”

“I ain’t doin’ shit, man! Y’all gonna die!”

Yup. They were going to die.

But not because of you. You had more important things to deal with, so as you looped once more around the warehouse, now knowing where all the humans were, you knocked each one out with a simple punch and collected their weapons.

You dumped the weapons in the water. There. _That wasn’t so hard!_

Turning back to the warehouse, you decided the best place to enter was through the upper level. So you hopped onto one of the side roofs and slipped through a window onto the second floor of the warehouse, slithering onto the beams that overlooked the main level.

Izaya had to be somewhere here. _Somewhere_.

~

Izaya was pissed. Not because he was captured—that had, obviously, been part of the whole plan to find out Yodogiri’s true identity—but because Yodogiri was _stupid enough_ to believe he could work with the vampire hunters in collecting _his pet_. Collecting _you_.

But he wasn’t even really pissed off about that. Izaya had anticipated an alliance between Yodogiri and the vampire hunters.

It was because he’d felt _fear_. For a moment. A millisecond, really, Izaya had thought about you, about Yodogiri getting his filthy hands on you, on what he might do, and felt something indescribable. A cross between wanting to stomp on all of Yodogiri’s phones until he was nothing more than a whimpering mess on the floor and wanting to hide you away in some dark corner so that no one, not even Celty, would ever find you. Anger and _fear_.

Izaya grinned, despite being blindfolded and tied to a chair, and said, in as much a bored tone as he could muster underneath the rage boiling in his veins, “You know, I’m not really one to make ideal _threats_ , but… I’m going to enjoy stabbing you to death, Yodogiri.”

~

This was easier than you’d anticipated. Much easier. Izaya was tied to a chair in the middle of the warehouse and the culprits were gathered around him. Many of them wielded weapons, but none wielded _silver_ weapons.

The guy in charge was obvious too; he wore a white suit and stood apart from the others.

You jumped down from the rafters into the middle of the fray, close to Izaya. The men startled, stepping back. All except for Mr. White Suit. He grinned at you and offered a hand to shake.

“My, my, so we finally meet. I’ve always wanted to meet a vampire in person, and now I can say I finally have.”

You refused to shake his hand. He waved your reluctance off with a shrug.

“You’re right, formalities aren’t needed. We all know why we’re here, don’t we?”

He was talking too much. His men weren’t moving. Obviously, they were idiots. You weren’t.

While he yakked away, you walked over to Izaya and began undoing his restraints.

“Now, now, I wouldn’t do that just yet.” You kept at it despite Mr. White Suit’s words. “We tied him up just for you!” That stopped you. You looked up, meeting his eerie gaze. He grinned. “Ah, that got your attention? Yes, well, tying him up like that wasn’t really for our benefit. Killing Orihara? Sure, that would take care of his constant meddling in our… _affairs_. But… well, it wouldn’t benefit us _personally_. Now you? I hear Mr. Orihara had you trapped this whole time… locked away… like a _pet_.”

You glared at him.

“Don’t like that word? I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t like being called it either. Anyways, we’d like to make a… _business_ arrangement, if you would, with you. You may kill Mr. Orihara here however you like, and in return for providing him, you’ll work for us. We won’t treat you like a pet; we’re not barbaric like Mr. Orihara. No, we appreciate our employees thoroughly.”

“Is that why your men outside tried to kill me?”

Mr. White Suit scoffed. “Nonsense, they were under _strict_ orders not to harm a hair on your head.”

“You should vet your employees more thoroughly.”

Mr. White Suit laughed.

“Ah, I can see why Mr. Orihara kept you so long. You’ve got good wit. But no, you’re right. If they didn’t do their job properly, then we’ll have to deal with them appropriately. I apologize for any… _inconvenience_ they may have caused you. But they didn’t hurt you, did they? They couldn’t. They’re not nearly that skilled. You’re much stronger than them. Much stronger than anyone else here!” He held his arms wide open, motioning to all the men with weapons.

 _Mint. Ginger. Mud._ Your nose tinkled with the familiar scents, and you sneezed.

“God bless you.” Mr. White Suit said.

You sniffed. So this was why it was so easy? He wanted to partner with you? Wanted to let you extract revenge on Izaya for catching you? For calling you his _pet_?

You flexed your fingers, reaching out to curl your claws around Izaya’s shoulder. You could finally be free. Finally escape.

That’s what they wanted you to believe.

Too bad for them you didn’t believe in liars.

You cut Izaya loose.

Izaya grinned and massaged his wrists.

“A monster blessing a mythical creature that’s rumored to have no soul. Heh. I’m not sure which is funnier. What’s the matter, Yodogiri? You look surprised. Don’t tell me you honestly expected my little pet to be anything but loyal.”

With a growl, you flashed your teeth at Izaya for calling you _pet_ again. Izaya offered an apologetic smile and sheepish shrug in return.

Mr. White Suit sighed dramatically. He held up a hand and waved two fingers. Vampire Hunters appeared out of the shadows with wooden bows and arrows. Your skin crawled.

 _That’s_ what the familiar scent had been. _That’s_ what had the hairs on your neck standing on end earlier. It was a trap! A bloody trap! And you fell for it!

Your Maker had warned you about your foolishness, your brashness. He’d even said, “ _Anything that is too easy is a lie. Always be ready for the trap._ ” You were such an idiot!

“I’m disappointed in your choice. But that’s alright. I—”

Izaya darted forward, moving faster than a vampire—was he a vampire?!—and sliced a knife through Mr. White Suit. The guy gripped Izaya’s wrist, holding the knife now imbedded in his stomach.

“Let me guess, you’re not the real Yodogiri, are you?” Izaya asked the question with convincing disinterest, but you’d gotten so used to his expressions by now that you could see the barest hint of frustration in the way his mouth curled just _so_ at the edges.

Mr. White Suit grinned even while he began to cough violently. He opened his mouth to say something but Izaya twisted the knife the rest of the way into his stomach and ripped it back out.

He dropped to the ground. Limp. Unmoving.

 _Dead_.

You almost vomited at the sight.

For a vampire, you’re not really great at the whole cold-blooded killer thing.

Izaya cleaned his knife on his coat, completely unfazed by his previous actions.

“Now that your previous partner is dead, what will you do?” Izaya drawled to the gathered audience. “Although, you saw how he tried to make a deal with a vampire… I wonder, would you have remained partners with him after that?”

“No.” One of the vampire hunters stepped forward, sliding her scarf down so you could see her lips moving. She, like the others, wore a special pair of tinted goggles that prevented you from hypnotizing her. She kept her crossbow pointed steadily at your neck. “We would’ve taken care of him too, but you saved us the hassle of that. Are you finally going to give us that thing?” She waved her bow at you.

Izaya tucked his knife away and his hands into his pocket. He stood squarely in front of you.

“No.” He said simply.

What was he, _insanely?!_ Why was he so relaxed? Didn’t he realize how dire the situation was? If he did this, he would die! You were going to _die!_ To finally _die!_

Was it just you or was it getting unbearably hot in here? You started to wheeze. Had the vampire hunters released some kind of toxic gas?

They weren’t moving. Izaya still stood in front of you. You couldn’t tell if he said anything or not, but the lady vampire hunter’s mouth moved which meant she was responding with something.

You couldn’t hear her words over the ringing in your ears.

Wooden arrows.

Silver arrowheads.

Silver bullets.

Three of them held weapons that shot out silver nets.

There was no way you were getting Izaya out of this.

Wait.

What?

Izaya wasn’t the one that could die from wooden arrows! He’d be fine! Mostly… maybe… okay, maybe he wouldn’t. You wouldn’t know either way cause you would already be dead. Why were you even concerned? Why had you even come here to save him? He was a nuisance!

Sure he fed you, took care of you, played chess with you, asked you interesting questions, saved you from the vampire hunters originally, tried to save you just now, cuddled you—

You were attached. When did you become attached to a human?

Nevermind that. One of the vampire hunters shot their arrow in an arc, aiming for you.

You dodged to the left, then ducked just before another hunter could hit you with a bullet—an arrow brushed by your face, millimeters away, you watched it cross your field of vision before looking to your left to be sure that Izaya was okay, and yes, yes he was, he was dodging just fine on his own, flicking his knife through the air to slice through one arrow, then another—

 _Screaming_ , where was the screaming coming from? Not you, not Izaya—

Some of the hunters jumped down from their elevated perches, others scattered left and right, they all turned in different directions, not all of them facing you or Izaya—

Pandemonium.

Beyond the ringing in your ears and the screaming, you heard a sound no one else could hear: the echoes of nothingness.

The Dullahan.

_Celty!_

The way she carved a path through the hunters, her scythe slicing through bodies without severing them in half, her shadow tendrils tossing others left and right with the ease of thousands of years of experience, people running from sheer _fear_ —it was like nothing you’d seen before.

It was breathtaking.

Literally, you forgot to breath. Izaya noticed.

“Hey, it’ll be really lame if you die from suffocating yourself!” He slapped you on the back until you took in a deep breath of strawberry cheesecake with rich fudge chocolate drizzled on top.

“You smell good,” you blurted, dumbly. Izaya grinned.

“A romantic at a time like this?”

Celty finished cutting a path through the vampire hunters, stopping before you, and motioned for the two of you to get onto her motorcycle.

The motorcycle breathed.

That was all you could pay attention to.

That, and the warmth Izaya emitted, the way he hugged you close, the sweet scent of sunbaked candied apples.

~

Celty drove the two of you all the way to Izaya’s apartment.

“I must admit, I’m surprised you showed up Celty…” Izaya drawled as he dismounted from the motorcycle. “Especially after our last conversation.”

Celty typed something on her phone and showed it to him.

He hummed, “I see,” and shrugged. “Well, thanks anyways! Guess we’ll be seeing you around.”

She left without saying anything else. You looked at Izaya expectantly. He sighed mock-dramatically.

“She said that she didn’t come to save me, she came to save _you_ as a ‘thank you’ for telling her your maker’s name. She met with him, by the way, and got some helpful information. It all worked out in the end, really. But I guess this means I’m indebted to you now. It’s really awful, I was looking forward to tormenting you some more…” He mused to himself quietly, such that you wouldn’t have heard if you weren’t a vampire, “I’m not usually indebted to others.”

“You’re not indebted to me.”

“Oh? And what makes you say that?”

“You saved me.”

“Feeding you hardly counts as—”

“Not that. You knew that the hunters were after me. They came to you for help with finding me, and instead of turning me over, you kept me safe. I could’ve died. But I didn’t. Because of you. So you’re not indebted to me, and I’m not indebted to you. We’re on the same level now.”

“Hm… so Namie told you, huh? I really ought to fire her. She’s a terrible employee.” Izaya sighed and rubbed his neck. “So what will you do now? Run? Hide? It’s awfully disappointing just to say goodbye. Being a vampire must be lonely…” He tilted his head at you, his red eyes glinting in the light cast by the street lamps. Not for the last time, you wondered if he was somehow part vampire… it would explain _so many_ things about him. “You know, Yodogiri is still out there. He might come back for me, or for you. It’d be in our best interests to partner together. What do you say?”

“… will you not call me ‘pet’ anymore?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your heart thrummed loudly in your chest. Since when did your heart move this much? Weren’t you supposed to be dead?

“I want the guest room on the other end of the apartment.” You decided.

“Is that all?”

“And I get to drink your blood still.”

“That’s a lot to ask for, but you’ve proven yourself, so I’ll consent.”

“And never partner with the vampire hunters.”

Izaya grinned, pulling you close to him suddenly. You didn’t mind. The warmth felt nice. He pressed his forehead against yours, whispering, “After they tried to kill me? It would be foolish to do anything but return the favor.”

And then he kissed you.

Sweetly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The arc of this story was inspired by “Irresistible” by Fall Out Boy. You’ve no idea how tempted I was just to name different chapters after lines in the song, but then the chapter titles would be obnoxiously long. 
> 
> Thanks for enduring through this! An epilogue will be posted in the near or distant future, but otherwise this is complete. It hasn’t been beta’ed, so if you find any typos or weird grammar fumbles, please share!


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